









'V 

Class _/ 


, GSH-f.X 


C6 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

















* 

































STORIES FROM ITALY 


*s 


STORIES 

FROM ITALY 

BY G. S. GODKIN 

I » 



3 


CHICAGO: A. C. McCLURG 
AND COMPANY- MDCCCXCVII 



7W0 COPIES RECEIVED 

M- 0\ o <?\ 'X C- 



Copyright, 

By A. C. McClurg & Co. 


THE BEVILACQUA STORIES 

PAGE 

The Soldier and the Monk .... n 
The Lady of the Fortress ..... 143 

Noblesse Oblige 183 

The Little Bersagliere 220 

OTHER STORIES 

The Duel 265 

The Bodkin Letter 316 



THE BEVILACQUA STORIES 


STORIES FROM ITALY 


THE SOLDIER AND THE MONK 
CHAPTER I 

Far in a wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay ; 

A refuge to the neighboring poor, 
And strangers led astray. 

Goldsmith. 

T was the month of 
May, just the dawn 
of the Italian sum- 
mer, when Nature 
puts on her most 
radiant aspect, and 
the air is still fresh 
with the breezes 
from the Apennines — the May of 1867, not 
quite a year after the last struggle between 
Italy and Austria, and only a few months 
after the suppression of a large number of 
monastic establishments, when Douglas Scotti 



11 



Stories from Italy 


Bevilacqua, a Piedmontese officer, under- 
took to conduct a party of English friends 
to visit an ancient monastery of some interest 
in a remote part of Tuscany. The party con- 
sisted of Arthur Burney, an English painter, 
his wife, his cousin Janet Burney, and a young 
lady friend called Amy Burke. 

The sainted hermit who had founded the 
house in the thirteenth century had chosen a 
savage desert in the heart of the mountains 
for his humble abode ; and though it came to 
be a splendid and flourishing institution later, 
famous for art and learning, it still continued 
to be remote from the stir of the civilized 
world, necessitating a weary and dangerous 
pilgrimage to visit it. In our own day, when 
the peril of wayside robbers had happily ceased, 
the poverty and sparseness of the population 
in that sterile region, and the great distance 
from towns and railways, made the fine old 
monastery still difficult of access : but a har- 
bor of refuge to a benighted traveller who 
chanced to stray over the mountains it con- 
tinued to be. 

At the time we speak of, when the small 
community had been transferred to another 
establishment, leaving two or three members 


12 


The Soldier and the Monk 


as custodians or stewards of the property, now 
in possession of the Government, it was only 
to be reached by five hours’ carriage driving. 
This was pleasant enough in the charming 
springtime, when the fields and roadsides were 
a blaze of wild flowers, and the woods and 
hedges alive with birds. 

As they ascended the slope of the moun- 
tain, the vegetation became more scanty ; but 
the grateful shade of olive and chestnut groves 
took the place of the cornfields, brilliant with 
poppies and bluebells, and the gracefully-fes- 
tooned vines climbing from one mulberry tree 
to another. The land surrounding the mon- 
astery, which looked like the castle of a 
mediaeval baron without the moat and draw- 
bridge, was well cultivated, for the industry 
and skill of the monks of the olden time had 
created a fertile soil in the desert. 

Our travellers had come with the necessary 
conveniences to remain all night in the mon- 
astery, as it had been the custom to do before 
the dissolution of the community, visitors 
leaving at their departure whatever sum of 
money they thought sufficient to indemnify 
the monks for the expense they had been at. 
There was no bargaining about it — it was de- 
i3 


Stories from Italy 

posited as a gift to the house , and was little or 
much, according to the means of the person, 
nothing being expected from poor travellers. 

Captain Bevilacqua and his friends reached 
their destination before mid-day, and, alight- 
ing at the gate, walked toward the house under 
the grateful shade of fine old trees which met 
overhead. At the corner of a by-path, seated 
on a wooden bench, with a book, was a mel- 
ancholy-looking monk, dressed in a long black 
robe and broad-leaved black hat. On their 
approach he rose and raised his hat politely, 
fixing his large, lustrous, hollow eyes on the 
intruders in an inquiring manner. The Italian 
officer, who had undertaken the duty of cice- 
rone for his foreign friends, came forward, re- 
turning the salute, and presenting his card, 
said, with a sort of modest deprecation : 

“ Pardon, padre, if we intrude on your tran- 
quillity and your studies ; but these foreign 
ladies, and the gentleman, who is an artist, 
wished very much to visit this famous spot, 
and we heard that you courteously permit vi- 
sitors to pass the night in the monastery.” 

“ It is no longer a monastery : it is an in- 
stitution of the State,” replied the monk. 

“A monastery or a State institute — what 
i4 


The Soldier and the Monk 

you will, it is still, and must ever be, a place 
of great interest ; and if it be not trespassing 
too far — ” 

“ By no means,” interrupted the monk. “ I 
am here, for the time being, in charge of the 
place, and have still the right to exercise that 
hospitality which was a rule of our Order. Sig- 
nor Capitano, I bid you and your friends wel- 
come to Trecolli.” 

Captain Bevilacqua presented his friends 
by name, and then followed a series of bows 
and a few courteous words from the monk. The 
captain fell back in the procession to the house, 
leaving the host to walk with Miss Burney, 
the lady who had most command of the Italian 
tongue. He felt a little embarrassed, for it 
had not escaped his notice that the monk’s 
manner, on his presenting his card, was not 
quite pleasant. There was a little surprise, 
unwelcome surprise it seemed, in his face at 
the first moments, which, however, his native 
politeness quickly enabled him to banish. But 
Bevilacqua, who had a sympathetic and sensi- 
tive nature, could not get over the idea that 
he possessed a sort of attraction and repulsion 
for the monk ; he looked at him, but not with 
a frank and friendly interest ; at least so it ap- 
15 


Stories from Italy 

peared to the officer, who began to think it 
was an indelicate thing of him to present 
himself at a monastery so soon after the 
" spoliation.” 

Bevilacqua was in uniform, according to 
military regulation, which does not admit of 
officers appearing in public otherwise ; he wore 
the handsome dress of the finest corps of in- 
fantry in the Italian army, that of Bersagliere, 
dark cloth faced with red, and a black hat with 
heavy dark plumes of cocks’ feathers falling 
to one side, and partly shading a handsome 
fair face. This last was not worn every day, 
but put on to please the English friends. He 
was a tall, fine man, of very upright, soldier- 
like bearing, hair and moustache a yellow- 
red, soft and wavy, and sky-blue eyes. He was 
somewhat sunburnt, and when he removed his 
hat the extreme whiteness of his forehead made 
more visible an ugly crooked scar extending 
from his hair to the left brow which had been 
cleft open. He looked every inch a soldier, 
and even if he had been in plain clothes he 
could not have been mistaken for anything 
else ; all his movements, whether he sat, or 
walked, or bowed, betrayed the military man. 
Though full of honors, having borne himself 
16 


The Soldier and the Monk 

gallantly in two campaigns, and won his cap- 
taincy and a gold medal at Custoza the year 
before we meet him, he was still young, only 
entering his twenty- eighth year. 

His friend, Arthur Burney, was an English 
painter of the pre-Raphaelite school, something 
of an archaeologist, a lover of the past and a 
scorner of the present : there were such before 
the aesthetics came into fashion. His wife was 
a gentle, lady-like young woman, who believed 
her husband to be a remarkable genius. His 
cousin Janet was a bit of an artist also — quick 
at catching likenesses, and fond of studying 
faces. Tall and fair, but not exactly pretty, 
she had a pleasing face, with her blond hair 
in a frizzy aureole round her forehead. She 
draped herself gracefully in artistic mode, and 
had a happy, mirthful spirit which made every- 
one like her. Amy Burke, the young friend, 
was a pretty little creature with a delicate oval 
face, a great quantity of dark brown hair 
brought smoothly back from a large forehead 
unadorned by fringe, which gave her a certain 
nun-like aspect, and made the Italian peasants 
call her the madonnina ; and as she had a 
romantic hankering after a cloistered life, her 
friends adopted this pet name. Amy Burke 
2 17 


Stories from Italy 

was a Roman Catholic ; the rest were 
Protestants. 

This was the party that the monk found 
himself so unexpectedly obliged to entertain. 
As he led them into the cool shade of the cloi- 
sters, the walls of which were covered with 
frescoes by famous masters, and pointed out 
the most noteworthy, he soon perceived that 
they had taste and judgment of their own, and 
might be left to amuse themselves, so he ex- 
cused himself, saying he had to give orders 
about dinner. 

To our English friends Trecolli was a de- 
licious place ; everything was quaint, antique, 
charming. Janet wanted to make a sketch of 
a lay brother drawing water from the well in 
the centre of the court, in a copper bucket of 
Etruscan form and battered, dingy aspect. 
The “ little madonna ” looked into the depths 
of the well, gathered a sprig of fern from the 
inside, and tried to converse with the lay 
brother about the delights of monastic life ; 
the painter was studying the frescos, and his 
wife was walking by his side listening to his 
remarks. 

It was only Captain Bevilacqua who did not 
feel in a congenial atmosphere. His childhood 
18 


The Soldier and the Monk 


had been spent in a monastery before he en- 
tered the military academy, so that there was 
nothing novel to him in it. Fra Angelico, Bot- 
ticelli, Sodoma, Signorelli, were names fami- 
liar enough to him, an Italian. With a sense 
of the beautiful, like most of his countrymen, 
he admired their works without being able to 
discuss them in the language of the critics. 
So while the rest of the party were indulging 
in the raptures common to artistic organiza- 
tions when their taste is gratified, he leaned 
his tall form against a pillar, resting one large 
freckled hand on the pommel of his sword and 
twisting his moustache with the other. The 
consolation of a cigar was denied to him, for 
he felt it would be an outrage to smoke within 
the sacred precincts of the cloisters. Mean- 
time the ladies had gathered together. “ What 
a perfect picture of a monk/' said Janet, 
“what magnificent eyes with caverns round 
them — quite like St. Francis D’Assisi.” 

“ Yes,” said Amy, “ but he is a Dominican ; 
he ought to have on a white robe instead of 
a black one.” 

“ Well, it does not matter what Order he 
belongs to,” said Janet, “ but I think I prefer 
the Dominicans, because they are clean ; and 
19 


Stories from Italy 

I do like cleanliness even in a saint, though 
I know it is generally considered superfluous.” 

“ What an ascetic, pallid face, and what 
delicate small hands he has ! ” observed Mrs. 
Burney. “ You must make a sketch of him, 
Janet; it will serve as a souvenir of our visit 
to this delightful retreat.” 

“ My dear Emma, do you think the blessed 
St. Francis would sit for his portrait ? Che , che /” 

When the host returned he invited the com- 
pany to follow him into the house. Seeing 
the officer “ standing at ease ” alone, he ad- 
dressed some courteous remarks to him, and 
they moved on in a body, the captain feeling 
that his martial tread and the clanking of his 
sword in the echoing corridors were offensive 
to the spirit of the place. The monk’s long 
robe fell in graceful folds round his spare figure, 
as he glided softly in advance like the pre- 
siding genius, sometimes pausing before a pic- 
ture, sometimes leading them out on a little 
balcony to admire a view. The sala della fo- 
restieria had been freshly sprinkled with water 
and swept, so that the brick floor looked damp 
and cool. 

It was a large, bare room with tall-backed 
antique chairs, handsomely carved, benches of 


20 


The Soldier and the Monk 

the same pattern, and a couple of marble tables 
against the wall. On the table in the middle 
of the room the cloth was spread with rustic 
simplicity for a meal which the inmates of 
the monastery called dinner, but which the 
worldly visitors regarded as a luncheon. 

They had brought a hamper of provisions 
with them : turkey, ham, tongue, bread, butter, 
and preserves. The convent provided soup, 
vegetables, and excellent red wine. A lay bro- 
ther waited at table, and the frate himself 
politely assisted, refusing, however, to partake 
of anything, as he had already dined. 

While the table was being prepared, the 
host had conducted the visitors to their bed- 
rooms, where the ladies found an old woman, 
wife of a neighboring contadino , hastily sum- 
moned for the emergency, making their beds. 
Hither they repaired after lunch for a little 
repose, as they had risen early in the morning. 

The floors were brick, and the accommo- 
dation rough, but everything was scrupulously 
clean ; the view from the windows and the lit- 
tle vine-covered balcony was enchanting. 

“ Do you not feel as if it were a cell, and 
you were a real nun, my madonnina?” asked 
Janet, waking from a nap. 


21 


Stories from Italy 

“ Almost,” replied Amy, who was perched 
on a window-sill looking out. 

“ How beautiful it is ; how calm and still ! 
I would give anything to spend a week here. 
The mountain air is so fine, it would be very 
good for Mrs. Burney.” 

“ I am sure I should be enchanted ! ” replied 
her friend. “ I will speak to Arthur about it. 
But come now, the padre promised to show 
us the library and several things. Let us hunt 
him up.” 

The library was a large hall lined with 
bookcases of parchment volumes with brass 
bindings, and splendidly illuminated choral 
books. It proved very interesting, and when 
it had been disposed of, the rest of the after- 
noon was spent in a delightful out-of-door ram- 
ble through the grounds appertaining to the 
convent, the host escorting the visitors every- 
where, explaining the work the men were en- 
gaged at. They were building supports on the 
steep banks to the trunks of the olives, which 
were manured with woollen rags, and they were 
* dressing and training the vines between the 
fig trees and mulberry trees. Of the latter 
they cultivated a great quantity to supply food 
for the silk-worms. 


22 


The Soldier and the Monk 


“ And who now consumes the oil and wine 
and all the produce of this fine farm? ” asked 
Mr. Burney, who was so absorbed in mediaeval 
art that he knew nothing about modern social 
or political questions in Italy, and had walked 
through the land as through a vast picture gal- 
lery or museum. Accident had thrown him 
into an intimacy with Captain Bevilacqua ; 
and Bevilacqua had the charm of admiring 
England and Englishmen, and of speaking our 
language in a manner not too offensive to the 
ear, though his vocabulary was very limited. 
He liked English ladies, too, and thought it a 
great privilege to be admitted to the society 
of the signorine without the restraints which 
Italian custom imposes. He had a great re- 
gard for Arthur Burney, but when he asked 
the disagreeable question above mentioned, 
he felt inclined to give him a poke in the 
ribs. 

“ It is all sold, and the government receives 
the returns, for which I am responsible,” re- 
plied the monk quietly. 

“By Jove! that seems very unfair,” ex- 
claimed the painter. “ On what ground do 
they justify such a wholesale confiscation of 
property? ” 


2 3 


Stories from Italy 

The monk shrugged his shoulders and 
opened his hands with an expressive gesture, 
which meant that he could not undertake to 
explain the secret working of the governmen- 
tal conscience. 

The bersagliere twisted his moustache un- 
easily, and cast a look at his friend which 
signified : “ Can’t you finish with that 

discourse ? ” 

The evening passed all too rapidly. At 
sunset Burney was seated on a low terrace, 
palette and brushes in hand, with a bevy of 
ladies round him, talking and admiring. The 
padre had left them a little time ago, and 
returning to announce supper, he looked as if 
he had made an evening toilette. He had 
put off the black gown of the morning, and 
appeared in the cream-colored robe of his 
Order, fallen into disuse since the disembodi- 
ment of the community. He looked remark- 
ably handsome in this dress, though sad and 
worn of aspect for so young a man. His 
dense, inky-black hair made an even line 
across a broad forehead, his straight black 
brows projected over a pair of large luminous 
eyes, beautiful in form and color, with a sort 
of smothered fire in them, “like an extinct 
24 


The Soldier and the Monk 


volcano,” Janet said. His habitual expression 
was that of calm melancholy. His nose was 
delicately aquiline, his cleanly- shaven lip and 
chin finely modelled, his head and throat 
those of an antique Roman statue. The 
painter, who saw him for the first time with- 
out hat or cowl, looked at him with admira- 
tion. Janet resolved forthwith to sketch him 
by stealth, and while he leaned over the rail- 
ing of the loggia looking at her cousin’s work 
and talking to him, she opened her sketch- 
book and began to draw his head in outline. 
Mrs. Burney unconsciously favored her design 
by saying, in the most persuasive tone : 

“ Dear padre, do not ask us to go in for a 
little while longer. My husband would rather 
go supperless than miss that glorious after- 
glow on the hills. We must have patience 
with artists — non i vero ? ” 

“ Surely,” replied the frate, with a smile. 
“ But do not call me padre ; I have no claim 
to the title.” 

" What is your name then? ” 

“ I am called Fra Gualberto in religion.” 

“ Is not Gualberto the name of the saint 
who founded Vallombrosa ? ” asked Janet. 

“ Yes. Do you know Vallombrosa? ” 

25 


Stories from Italy 

“Not yet. Tell me about the founder, 
please.” 

Janet was not wholly ignorant of the story, 
but she asked to hear it in order to keep the 
frate talking, so that she might continue her 
sketch. 

“ Gualberto was a young Florentine gentle- 
man of reckless gayety, and one day coming 
down the Monte delle Croci with two or three 
attendants, he encountered the man who had 
slain his brother Hugo. His natural impulse 
was to avenge his brother ; but at that 
moment the bells of St. Miniato rang out, re- 
minding him that it was Easter morn, and he 
stayed his hand from shedding blood on that 
blessed day. The homicide was also struck with 
remorse, and kneeling to Gualberto, asked his 
pardon. From that day the wild young man 
abandoned all worldly pleasures and entered 
the monastery of St. Miniato ; but the discipline 
was not strict enough for him, and he finally 
retired to Vallombrosa, where he founded the 
convent.” 

“ It is a strange story,” said Amy, thought- 
fully. “ Now, if he had killed the man, I 
could understand his thinking no penance too 
severe ; but — ” 


26 


The Soldier and the Monk 


“ It was all the same ; he was a murderer 
in his heart. If the bells had not rung he 
would have struck the fatal blow, and sent a 
sinful soul unshriven out of the world,” re- 
plied the monk, with a certain severity of 
tone and aspect, which made Janet look up 
quickly from her work to catch this new 
expression on the face she was endeavoring 
to reproduce. 

“ The supper is waiting, ladies. With your 
permission, Signor Pittore,” he said, with a 
smile, taking up Mrs. Burney’s campstool and 
leading the way indoors. 

There was a huge dish of boiled maccaroni, 
with butter and grated cheese in it, omelette, 
surrounded with green peas, and a snow-white 
curd called ricotta , resting in a cradle of 
green rushes. Fra Gualberto partook spar- 
ingly of supper, and discoursed on Italian art 
with Mr. Burney and his cousin, relating 
anecdotes and traditions of the great masters 
which had lingered in the religious houses 
where they had worked. Some of these 
stories were of a comic nature, provocative of 
laughter, and the frate’s quiet, humorous 
smile showed that he appreciated the fun. 
They were still seated in the great bare room 
27 


Stories from Italy 

called the sala della forestieria , and when ten 
o’clock struck the host rose and lit several 
lucerne — long brass lamps carried by a ring 
in the top — and said : 

“ Ladies, your chambers are here adjoin- 
ing the sala, and you need no guide ; but 
yours, Signor Capitano, is at a little distance, 
and I must conduct you to it, lest you lose 
your way in the corridors.” 

He took a lucerna in his hand, said “ Felice 
notte ,” with a low bow to the others, and thus 
compelled the reluctant captain to follow his 
example. At the far end of a corridor they 
ascended two or three steps to a double 
apartment. 

“This was the chamber and study of the 
late prior. I hope you will find yourself 
comfortable.” 

“ Oh, thank you ; an ordinary cell would 
have served me well enough. Soldiers are not 
used to luxuries no more than monks,” returned 
the captain with his frank smile, which could 
not fail to be conciliating. 

The monk responded with the ghost of a 
smile : — 

“ I know it. Soldiers have a hard life, at 
times." 


28 


The Soldier and the Monk 


“ And monks constantly, you would say?” 
suggested the captain. 

“ It depends. Buo?ia notte , buon riposo ,” 
and he vanished. 

Bevilacqua looked after him as his white 
gown swept along the gloomy corridor, and 
thought what a dismal, forlorn life his must be 
in this vast deserted pile of buildings. 

“ Povero f 'rate ! ” murmured the kind- 
hearted soldier. “ This must indeed be a 
living death ; and he is vastly superior in edu- 
cation and manners to the mass of these men.” 

The room seemed close, so he opened his 
window and leaned out a while, admiring the 
beauty of the moonbeams silvering the trees, 
and the fireflies glancing through them like dia- 
mond sparks, while a nightingale in the wood 
at a little distance made the summer night en- 
trancing with her song. Bevilacqua drank in 
the balmy air with an intense enjoyment of 
the scene. He did not know why he was so 
unreasonably happy as he smoked his cigar, 
leaning over the rails of his window, so as not 
to defile the sacred edifice with the unhal- 
lowed fumes of a “ Cavour.” 

He was thinking that the lady of his love 
was in all probability contemplating the same 
29 


Stories from Italy 

scene not far off — how far he could not tell, 
for the frate had led him through intricate pas- 
sages. But she was under the same roof ; and 
perhaps — perhaps, he was not too presump- 
tous in imagining that she might be thinking 
of him at that moment. 

“ Of me or of a convent, which?” he said 
in sudden doubt. “ She is so fascinated with 
this place, who knows what influence it may 
have on her young imagination ? What a fate 
that would be for one who loves to be free as 
the swallows. She shall not do it ! ” 

He threw away his cigar and shut the win- 
dow with a bang which awakened a startling 
echo in the apartment, and went to bed, but 
not to sleep. 


30 


CHAPTER II 


He either fears his fate too much, 
Or his deserts are small, 

Who dares not put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all. 

Montrose. 

EVILACQUA, accus- 
tomed from long 
practice in military 
life to early rising, 
was up at the dawn, 
wandering over the 
mountains, and back 
in the convent 
grounds by seven o’clock. He was going 
through the wood near the house when he 
heard a little voice, which was something 
different from that of the birds, but quite as 
sweet to his ear. “ La mia rondinella / ” he 
whispered to his moustache as he hid himself 
behind a tree. From this post of observation 
he peeped through the foliage, and beheld, with 
a lover’s rapture, a little lady seated upon a 
wall under the shade of a tree, with her back 




Stories from Italy 

partly towards him, in a white gown sprinkled 
with violets. He knew the dress and he knew 
the mass of glossy brown hair, without braids, 
or curls, or frizzes, simply rolled up at the back 
of the head with a comb. She had a book on 
her lap, from which she was committing some- 
thing to memory. 

Bevilacqua’s heart beat faster when she 
turned her head a little in his direction, and 
he hardly dared move, lest he might startle 
his “ little swallow.” The words she was re- 
peating in her pretty foreign accents were the 
first lines of Dante’s most beautiful sonnet to 
Beatrice, — 

“ Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare 
La donna mia quand’ ella altrui saluta, 

Che ogni lingua divien tremando muta, 

E gli occhi non ardiscon di guardare.” 1 

Having read these lines, she put her hand 
on the page, lifted her eyes to the wood and 
repeated them again ; then she returned to the 
book, and so continued to the end of the poem. 
The eavesdropper felt every line of the exqui- 
site sonnet was applicable to her. 

1 So gentle and modest does my lady appear when 
she stops to salute others, that every tongue becomes 
trembling and silent, and eyes dare not gaze on her. 

32 


The Soldier and the Monk 


Finding his ambush undiscovered, he grew 
bolder and advanced cautiously nearer to the 
wall. Captain Bevilacqua’s ordinary walk was 
a “ march,” and it seemed impossible for him 
to move lightly or noiselessly. He went on 
tiptoe, but he trod on a bramble and made a 
rustling sound, which caused Amy to turn her 
head quickly and behold him looking guilty 
as a spy. 

“ Oh, buon giorno, Signor Capitano.” 

Bevilacqua drew himself up, placed his heels 
together, and doffed his plumed hat with a 
profound salutation. 

“ Scusi, Signorina. I had not intended to 
interrupt your studies. I tried to pass unper- 
ceived, but the bramble betrayed me.” 

“ It does not matter in the least,” she re- 
plied, with a smile, which encouraged him to 
lay his arm on the wall and say : 

“ Can I help you with your lesson ? n 

“ If you would correct my pronunciation, 
which is my weak point,” said Amy, “ and if 
you don’t mind hearing the divine poet 
murdered — ” 

“ Che , che / It is an infinite pleasure, noth- 
ing I enjoy more,” said the bersagliere. 

“ What a heretical Italian you must be,” 
3 33 


Stories from Italy 

laughed the girl. “ My professor says he 
suffers dreadfully listening to his pupils man- 
gling Dante.” 

“ Ah, yes; I understand that,” returned the 
captain, recovering himself. “ But there is a 
great difference in pupils.” 

“ I am one of the worst, I assure you,” she 
replied, handing him the book, which he laid 
back on her lap. “ You know it by heart? ” 

“ What Italian worthy of the name does 
not?” he replied. 

Amy repeated the first six lines without 
a blunder, then she paused and cast down 
her eyes. If her teacher had been reading 
instead of looking at her, she would have got 
on better. 

“ You must not refer to the book,” he said, 
covering the page with his hand. 

She then fixed her eyes steadily on an olive 
tree, and got to the end of the fourteen lines 
without much prompting. 

“ Bravissima /” said the captain. 

“ But you did not correct my pronuncia- 
tion,” she said. 

“ I did not perceive any particular defect 
but a general slurring of the letter r” 

“ I observe,” replied Amy, “ that you roll 
34 


The Soldier and the Monk 

your r 9 s with great force. Will you let me 
hear you repeat the sonnet?” 

Bevilacqua liked nothing better. As he 
recited the beautiful poem, he felt he was de- 
scribing the little lady by his side : his face lit 
up and his deep voice took a tone of tender 
expression in the last few lines, which she 
attributed to his enthusiasm for Dante. There 
was a momentous pause, in which he felt in- 
clined to follow up the advantage which the 
poetry had given him, and tell her that she 
was his Beatrice. When would he have such 
a delightful chance again ? If he had not the 
spirit to speak now, and combat her foolish 
fancy for a convent, she might be lost to him 
for ever. 

“ Courage ! ” he said within himself. “ No- 
thing venture, nothing win.” 

But our hero, who had so many medals for 
valor in the field, was a very coward in the 
presence of the girl he loved. When he looked 
at her with his soul in his eyes, he saw no re- 
sponsive light in hers. Her soft, dreamy, gray 
eyes seemed to look beyond him into the wood. 
He ruffled the leaves of her book with nervous 
hand, hardly conscious of what he was doing, 
and remained silent. 


35 


Stories from Italy 

“ Don’t spoil the corners,” said Amy, with 
a playful smile, laying her pretty hand on the 
book and pushing his away. 

The touch of her fingers sent an electric 
thrill through him, and if he had to be shot 
for it the next hour, he could not help en- 
closing them in his broad palm for a moment, 
as he said : 

“ Pardon ; I am only a rough soldier. I 
cannot handle things daintily.” 

He thought he observed the roseate hue 
which the morning breeze had brought to his 
madonnina’s delicate cheek, deepen a little : 
but he might have been mistaken. While a 
hundred fond words were surging in his heart, 
and he had not courage to give utterance to 
one of them, Amy rose, and standing on the 
stone bench which had served her as a foot- 
stool while sitting on the wall, she said : 

“ I think it is time to go.” 

“Have you had a walk this morning?” 

“I tried to find the little chapel in the 
boscoy but did not succeed.” 

“ Oh, let me conduct you to it ; I have just 
passed it,” said the captain. 

“ Is it far? ” 

“Two steeps,” replied he, eagerly. 

36 


The Soldier and the Monk 

The Italian “ two steps ” may possibly ex- 
tend half a mile. Amy stepped up on the 
wall, which, low on her side, on the captain’s 
was between four and five feet. She was about 
to leap, but he, not knowing how English girls 
are accustomed to outdoor exercise, and how 
his madonnina, small and delicate as she 
looked, used to scud over moor and mountain 
in all weathers, could not permit her to hurt 
her little feet, and passing his arm round her 
waist, lifted her to the ground as easily as if 
she were a child. 

“ It is too high ; you might have been hurt,” 
he said apologetically, fearing he had been 
too audacious. 

Amy sped down the path, not waiting for 
her cavalier to clear the brambles out of her 
way, but hopping over them like a fay. 

“ I am going to ask you an impertinent 
question,” said Amy, as they walked side by 
side. “ Will you answer it ? ” 

“ Most willingly. No question of yours could 
be impertinent.” 

“ How did you come by the name of Doug- 
las Scotti? Had you a Scotchman for a 
godfather? ” 

“It is my mother’s name.” 

37 


Stories from Italy 

“Is she Scotch? ” asked Amy. 

“ No, Italian, if a residence of four hundred 
years makes a family indigenous of the soil. 
My maternal ancestor was a Douglas, and in 
Italy it was much the habit to sign the nation- 
ality after the name, so in time it became part 
of it.” 

“Ah! I thought it must be so,” returned 
Amy. “ It is interesting to trace national 
characteristics which have survived four hun- 
dred years after transplantation. I fancy I 
have perceived some Scottish traits in you.” 

“ Indeed ! I thought I was Italianissimo . 
The Bevilacquas have been pure Piedmontese 
blood as far back as our history dates.” 

“ Yes, you are chiefly Italian ; but still you 
have a little touch of a Scot.” 

“ May I ask what are my Scottish traits? ” 
inquired Bevilacqua, with much interest. 

“ It is not pleasant, nor is it polite, to ana- 
lyze a person’s character in his presence,” re- 
turned Amy. 

“ But if he entreats you to do so as a kind- 
ness? I promise not to take ill any criticism. 
Pray tell me how I resemble a Scot.” 

“ One point is your perfect sincerity.” 

Bevilacqua, like most persons of his com- 
38 


The Soldier and the Monk 

plexion, colored easily ; he did so now, but not 
with pleasure, and said : 

“You think Italians insincere then.” 

“ No, I do not ; but I think the Scotch more 
sincere — everything is relative. I do not say 
it is always a virtue, for with the Scotch it 
sometimes degenerates into rudeness. They 
want the pleasant, courteous manners which 
everybody, high and low, has here. I protest 
against the habit of taking for granted that a 
comparison between two diverse characters 
must imply a reproach to one. People are 
too fond of describing certain attributes that 
they admire as cardinal virtues and the oppo- 
site as defects.” 

“You have reason in what you say. Tell 
me if I have any other Scottish trait.” 

“That I will not,” returned Amy. “My 
first remark roused your Italian blood, and how 
should I know but I might touch some sensi- 
tive spot of your organization which is still 
Scotch?” 

“ No, no,” he replied, laughing ; “ I know 
I am an ass ; but have patience with me, and 
speak frankly, for I desire very much to hear 
your opinion.” 

But Amy would not gratify him. 

39 


Stories from Italy 

“ What a charming old place this is — just 
my beau ideal of a monastery,” she said. 
“ But the frate does not look happy ; he must 
be very lonely since all his company have been 
removed.” 

“ I do not think a man of spirit or energy 
— that is to say, a manly man — can ever be 
happy in a life of inaction and idleness,” ob- 
served Bevilacqua. 

“ Their life is not exactly one of idleness,” 
returned Amy ; “ but I grant you it is not so well 
adapted to men as women. To many women 
it is a peaceful haven of rest from the turmoil 
and worry and petty jealousies of society.” 

“To what sort of women?” asked Bevi- 
lacqua, his bright face clouding. 

“ Those who have no settled home — who 
have no parents to care for them or mourn 
them, nor any near relations — those who have 
suffered, who care not for society, who have 
quiet tastes, are fond of study, who love na- 
ture — those who like to be taken care of, and 
would rather be one of a large family than 
stand alone in solitary independence.” 

Every word went straight to the heart of 
Douglas Bevilacqua, for he knew that Amy 
was describing her own condition. She had 
40 


The Soldier and the Monk 

lost loved parents in recent years, and had felt 
their loss deeply, being an only child with no 
near relations. She was of a quiet and studious 
nature, and a lover of the country father than 
the city. To think that she should feel lonely 
and desolate, and seek protection and family 
affection in a convent ! The thought was mad- 
dening. He burned to throw himself at her 
feet and tell her she was the idol of his soul, 
the joy of his life — that she should not, must 
not, sacrifice herself to a whim, a chimera. 
But he feared a repulse ; he had no reason to 
think Amy had any feeling for him except 
friendly regard. 

“ My mother has a cousin who was a nun,’* 
he began slowly, u and when the convents were 
opened lately, and those who chose were set 
at liberty, she, as well as others, returned to 
her family. She has been staying at our house, 
and a more foolish, childish woman of forty I 
have rarely seen. She does not know how to 
buy her own clothes, and she is afraid of every 
one she meets on the road. She would be 
terribly shocked if she saw you running about 
through the wood. Love of nature is crushed 
in the convent, for the nuns live indoors. As 
for pursuing favorite studies, it is not per- 
4i 


Stories from Italy 

mitted. Our cousin reads nothing but the lives 
of the saints.” 

“ She may be an exceptional case,” said Amy. 
“ It seems to me a beautiful life, so restful and 
calm.” 

“ Signorina, you deceive yourself if you think 
you could be happy in such a place,” broke in 
Douglas Bevilacqua, his breath coming quickly 
with suppressed excitement. “ You, who have 
been bred in a land of liberty, who have been 
allowed to run over your native hills free as 
the birds of the air, — how would you bear the 
imprisonment — the subjection — never to have 
a will of your own? ” 

“ It has never troubled me to give up,” re- 
turned Amy. “ I never thought my own will 
of such value as to be worth a struggle.” 

“ That is because you have never felt what 
it is to be oppressed. It is a very different 
thing to obey loving parents, those who have 
a natural right to command, from obeying the 
caprices of an unsympathetic stranger. I am 
a soldier, I, and have known how to obey as 
well as command. I appreciate the importance 
of surrendering our own will in certain circum- 
stances. But the monastic system differs from 
all others in this : There is no public opinion, 
42 


The Soldier and the Monk 

no appeal against injustice — all is secret. It 
is a positive tyranny.” 

“ There may be some cases of abuse.” 

“ I do not speak of isolated cases. It is 
the system that is bad,” returned Bevilacqua, 
emphatically. 

They had now reached the tiny chapel in 
the heart of the wood. He unlatched the 
door and threw it open for her, and though he 
uncovered mechanically on the threshold, he 
did not feel in a mood to enter. He saw 
Amy sink on her knees reverently before the 
little flower-decked altar ; saw the grotto be- 
yond it with the statue of the Beato who had 
founded the monastery of Trecolli, reclining 
gracefully with his head on a stone pillow, the 
white marble gleaming out of the gloom — all 
making a pretty picture, which, at another 
time, would have touched him, but he was too 
much perturbed now to dwell on it. He 
turned away, and leaning against the pillar of 
the door, with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
abandoned himself to a painful reverie. She 
was lost to him, then, his madonnina ! 

The Church had laid her tenacious grip 
upon her, and there was no hope for him. 
He never knew till now how much he had 


43 


Stories from Italy 


counted on winning her. Life without her 
would be desolation ; and for her, his be- 
loved, what a fate ! If she were sure of hap- 
piness even — 

A light step near him interrupted his 
gloomy reflections, and, on lifting his head, 
he beheld the frate’s eyes fixed on him with a 
keen interest. 

“ Ah, buon giorno , padre” he said, rousing 
himself and shaking out the feathers of his hat 
before replacing it on his head. “ The 
Signorina Amy wanted to see your little 
chapel and I undertook to lead her to it.” 

“ I saw you passing through the wood and 
knew where to seek you. Felice giorno , 
Signorina; how do you like the chapel?” he 
added as Amy joined them. 

“Very much. It is charming in its sim- 
plicity.” 

“ After breakfast I will show you the church 
of the monastery. Come with me now, for 
the coffee is ready,” and he led them by a 
short cut to the house, where they found 
breakfast awaiting them, and the rest of the 
party assembled in the sa/a. After the meal 
had been despatched, the captain followed the 
host and the rest of the company in moody 
44 


The Soldier and the Monk 


silence to the church, looked at the fine 
pictures and frescos, the gorgeous colored 
marbles and gold chasing that adorned the 
altars, the finely carved wood that composed 
the choir, and turned away in deep disgust 
from it all — thinking how many miserable 
men immured in this prison house had eaten 
their hearts out, while working year after 
year. 

Later, when the frate had despatched some 
business and had an hour to dedicate to his 
guests, he was persuaded to sit for his portrait 
to Miss Burney. They placed themselves in 
the cool shade of the cloister, and here Bevi- 
lacqua found them — Janet painting, Amy 
working embroidery, and the frate reading 
aloud. The trio looked happy, and as home- 
like as it was possible to look in a cloister, 
for they had brought out chairs and stools. 
They called to Bevilacqua to join them, which 
he did, taking a seat near the portrait painter. 
Miss Burney laid down her brush, pushed 
back her fair frizzy hair with long white fin- 
gers — the fingers of an artist — looked at 
the captain meditatively a moment, and then 
returned to her model. 

“ Fra Gualberto, I ’ll trouble you to lay 
45 


Stories from Italy 

down your book and look in this direction — 
not at me : at Captain Bevilacqua — that is 
right ; turn your head a little more — so.” 

“ Shall I read while you rest, padre?” 
asked the bersagliere , reaching his hand for 
the book. La Vita di San Francesco was 
the title that met his eye, an inoffensive work, 
one might suppose. 

The soldier suppressed an oath, but ex- 
claimed, “ Per carita /” emphatically, as he 
slapped the book down on his knee. The 
look of surprise that three pair of eyes bent 
on him — Janet’s with a touch of mirthful 
humor, the madonnina’s with a gentle re- 
proach, and the slightly disturbed expression 
in the frate’s — awakened him to a sense of 
his rudeness to the latter, and, like a true 
gentleman, he hastened to apologize as well 
as he could. 

“ You must excuse me, I meant no offence 
by my exclamation. But we have in our 
house a nun who left her convent some time 
ago, and she is always reading the life of this 
saint ; she pursued me with it continually, 
reading me choice passages, till she made my 
life a burden, and I almost wished — with all 
reverence be it spoken — that Brother Wolf 
46 


The Soldier and the Monk 

with whom St. Francis made the treaty of 
peace, had eaten him up. You can imagine, 
then, my surprise on meeting with the book 
here the first thing.” 

“ It was not of my choosing — the ladies 
wished for it,” said Fra Gualberto. 

“ It was most natural to want to read the 
life of St. Francis in a monastery,” returned 
the captain. “And now I have made my 
confession, I again ask pardon for my rude 
exclamation, and I am ready to do penance 
by reading the chapter about Brother Wolf 
or the sermon to the Sister Birds.” 

“We hold you absolved,” replied the frate, 
a sly smile playing round his expressive mouth, 
“ on condition that you read us something else 
from a work of your own choice.” 

“ What author? ” asked the captain, glanc- 
ing at Amy, who promptly replied, “ Dante.” 
Bevil’acqua was a good elocutionist, he had a 
fine voice, and he read, con amore , the whole 
of the first canto of the “ Inferno.” He enjoyed 
it himself as much as his hearers. Then he 
handed the volume to Gualberto, asking him 
to read a passage. The frate without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation turned to the story of Fran- 
cesca di Rimini, as if he were as familiar with 
47 


Stories from Italy 


it as with the lives of the saints, and delivered 
it with a dramatic power of expression which 
charmed his audience. 

“ Bravissimo / ” cried Bevilacqua, “ I have 
heard the passage a hundred times, but never 
more admirably delivered. I am glad I ob- 
jected to St. Francis since it has procured us 
this pleasure.” 

Gualberto bowed his thanks, while the color 
faded from his cheek, and he settled into his 
normal calm. Meantime Janet’s busy fingers 
had been hard at work. During the Dante 
recitation she had caught in her model’s eyes 
the spark of living fire for which she had been 
looking, while his voice had lost the monot- 
onous melancholy tone, and vibrated with 
emotion. Elated by the discovery, and eager 
to infuse this look if possible into his portrait, 
while she listened to the poetry and enjoyed 
it, she had been laboring under a sort of ex- 
citement which left her exhausted before the 
mid-day meal was ready. “ I am tired,” she 
said, “ yet I am unwilling to leave off. I fear 
it will be a very imperfect sketch after all,” 
and she sighed. 

“ Signorina, I do not know why you should 
wish to paint a poor old monk like me. But 
48 


The Soldier and the Monk 

since it is your whim and that of madame, I 
am at your disposition at any hour.” 

“ But we are going away this evening.” 

“ Would you like to remain another day ? ” 
asked Gualberto. 

“ I would, indeed. Mrs. Burney wished par- 
ticularly for this sketch as a souvenir of our 
delightful visit, and I might make something 
of it if I had another day ; but I fear we are 
intruding too much and detaining you from 
your occupations.” 

“ By no means. I am up at five, and do 
most of my business before breakfast ; then I 
have the afternoon again for my affairs. Do 
you wish to remain also, Signorina?” he said, 
addressing Amy. 

“ Ah, I should be so glad ! ” 

“ And you, Signor Capitano? ” 

“ I have no wish that does not accord with 
that of the ladies,” was the polite rejoinder. 
“ I think it is a pity if Miss Janet cannot 
finish her little picture, and I know my friend 
Burney has no hope of completing his 
to-day.” 

“ Let us all come, then, with a petition to 
the Signora to postpone the departure, the day 
is so beautiful,” said Fra Gualberto. 

49 


4 


CHAPTER III 


Oh, think, when a hero is wooing, 
What danger in such an adorer ! 

What maid has the heart to refuse 
The hand that lays laurels before her ? 

Moore. 

IGHT days had 
elapsed since our 
travellers had 
alighted at the gate 
of Trecolli. On the 
second day of their 
sojourn they had 
sent to the city for 
some additions to their wardrobe by a con- 
tadinOy repairing thither on his own business 
with a bullock cart ; and being thus supplied 
with necessaries, they were in no hurry to 
take their departure. Though every day was 
supposed to be the last, there was always found 
some reason for postponing the journey till the 
morrow. Arthur Burney, who revelled in the 
scenery, had finished two sketches, and begun 
a third on a little height above the monastery. 
5 ° 



The Soldier and the Monk 


Janet’s portrait of the frate grew apace, 
and promised to be a fair success. He gave 
her a sitting of two hours every morning in the 
cloisters, her favorite resort, always donning 
his white robe, which she preferred to the black 
one. She had brought her materials with her, 
and the frate himself had put together a rough 
little easel for her use. Mrs. Burney and Amy, 
with books and work, generally kept them com- 
pany. The bersagliere , who required three 
times as much exercise as the rest of the party, 
used to rise early and make long excursions 
over the mountains to different villages, run- 
ning for an hour at a time according to the 
practice of his corps, — the most robust and 
best disciplined in the Italian army. The 
captain was a zealous officer, and devoted to 
the mental and moral improvement of the men 
under his charge, as well as to their physical 
development, and had lofty ideas about the 
mission of the army as a means of civilization 
and education, and a cementer of the national 
unity. It was rarely he allowed himself such 
pleasant idleness as he now enjoyed, and it 
seemed all the sweeter in consequence. 

He generally strolled into the cloisters the 
last hour of the sitting, when the frate, who 
5 1 


Stories from Italy 


had been reading aloud for the most part of it, 
used to hand him the book, and settle himself 
in an attitude of graceful repose, quietly ob- 
servant of the others. He was not fidgety or 
impatient ; it did not seem to matter to him 
how long or how short a time he sat. If the 
painter were in a social mood, he talked very 
agreeably; if she were disposed to work 
silently, he read, unless she required him to 
look up. Amy used sometimes to make ex- 
cursions into the fine old chapel and the 
ghostly library, with its parchment volumes 
bound in brass, which she examined with a 
reverent awe. 

One morning she came into the cloister 
where the rest were assembled — all but Mr. 
Burney, who was as usual out on his own busi- 
ness — and on being asked where she had 
been exploring, she replied that she had visited 
the convent prison in company with one of 
the lay brothers. 

“Why did he conduct you there?” asked 
Fra Gualberto, a little annoyed. 

“ I asked him,” she replied. “ I am curi- 
ous about it.” 

“ And what sort of place is it, Amy ? ” asked 
Janet, throwing back her head to look criti- 
52 


The Soldier and the Monk 

cally at the slender brown hand which sup- 
ported the book in her picture, and then 
glancing at the original. 

“ A horrid place, like all prisons. Has it 
ever been used in your time, Padre Gual- 
berto? ” 

“ Very rarely.” 

“ For what offence ? ” asked Amy. 

“ Insubordination.” 

“ It is the one unpardonable sin in conven- 
tual life,” observed Captain Bevilacqua. 

“ Is it not punished severely in the army? ” 
said Fra Gualberto, in a voice so melancholy 
and gentle that it took off the sharp edge of 
the retort. And Bevilacqua had to acknowl- 
edge that it was so, and could not be otherwise. 

It had become the custom of the little party 
to take a walk all together every evening. Fra 
Gualberto had at first withdrawn himself at this 
hour, but his guests would not admit of his 
absenting himself; Mr. Burney, who was out 
sketching all day, protesting that as that was 
the only time he had his host’s company, he 
would not go without him. In fact, he was 
made to feel that he was indispensable to the 
happiness of the party, so he yielded to their 
persuasions, and seemed to enjoy those pleas- 
53 


Stories from Italy 

ant rambles. In constant intercourse in such 
an isolated spot, they became in the course of 
a week not only friendly, but intimate. 

The evening of the same day in which Amy 
had spoken of visiting the prison, all went out 
for the customary walk ; and returning in the 
twilight, they had to cross the bed of a little 
mountain torrent, now almost dry, but still with 
water enough to make a couple of bowlders 
useful as stepping-stones. The gentlemen had 
moved one of these to a convenient distance 
for the ladies, and Mrs. Burney had been 
safely piloted across by the bersagliere on one 
side and her husband on the other, the frate 
standing behind to see them all over before 
him. With his assistance, Amy mounted on 
the round bowlder, gave the tips of her fingers 
to the captain, and bounded across without 
touching the second stone even with her toe. 

“ Brava /” cried Bevilacqua, lost in admira- 
tion of the activity of English ladies. 

“Miss Burke is a regular mountain deer,” 
said Burney, “ but you need not suppose that 
all our ladies are equal to her. Here is 
Emma, my wife, who would not take that leap 
to save her life, I do believe.” 

The frate then helped Janet to the stepping- 
54 


The Soldier and the Monk 

stone, but before she could give her hand to 
Bevilacqua at the other side, her foot slipped 
and went down in a hole ; her tall slender 
figure swayed backwards, and she would have 
fallen had not Gualberto been there to catch 
her. They carried her across to smooth 
ground, and laid her down on the turf for a 
little while, till the pain of her foot had almost 
passed. They were not far from the monas- 
tery, and she was able to walk home, leaning 
on her cousin’s arm. This little accident had 
made their return somewhat late, and the 
moonlight began to mingle with the dim twi- 
light before they arrived. 

Bevilacqua, seeing Gualberto and Mrs. Bur- 
ney walking abreast with Arthur and Janet, 
and all four engaged in conversation, seized 
the occasion which he had been looking for 
to speak privately to his fair friend, who had a 
most artful way of eluding him without ap- 
pearing ungracious. 

“ Signora Amie,” he whispered, “ I hope you 
won’t think me impertinent, but I wanted to 
ask you if there is anything the matter? You 
have not seemed as happy as usual to-day — 
pray walk a little slower ; I never had a chance 
of speaking alone with you till now.” 

55 


Stories from Italy 

These two always conversed in Italian, for 
Bevilacqua’s English was very imperfect, and 
he only practised it on the painter, who 
spoke equally bad Italian. He did not mind 
Burney and them all laughing at his blunders 
— he laughed himself ; but he thought a lady 
was entitled to the best language he could 
command. 

“ I am glad you asked me this, Signor Doug- 
las,” said Amy. “ I want to tell you some- 
thing, which, if my confessor were near, I 
should tell him. The Burneys are dear kind 
people — Janet is my chosen friend; but they 
are Protestants, and it would be disloyal to the 
Church to confide it to them. You are a Lib- 
eral and opposed to the Pope in politics, but 
you are still a Catholic, and I am resolved to 
share the horrid secret with you.” 

Captain Bevilacqua doubted if he had heard 
aright. He was to take the place of a confessor, 
and be made participator of a “ horrid secret.” 
Who had dared to tell his madonnina a horrid 
secret, which would be disloyal to reveal to 
Protestants ? 

A painful suspicion of the frate flashed across 
his mind, and he said with great earnestness : 
“Tell me all, you can trust me. I will respect 
56 


The Soldier and the Monk 

the secret. Only believe that I am your devoted 
servant ; you can command me absolutely.” 

“ Thank you,” she replied, “ I do not hesi- 
tate to trust you, and it will relieve my mind 
to tell you what I have discovered. This 
morning, after I had been to visit the prisons, 
I wandered into a cell on the ground floor in 
which old furniture and lumber are kept. On 
the shelf of a console I found a pretty cross of 
inlaid wood and ivory, about eight inches long. 
In examining it, I accidentally touched a secret 
spring, whereupon the lower part of the wood 
dropped off, and I held a naked blade of shin- 
ing steel in my hand. It was sharp-pointed, 
and had dark rusty spots on it.” 

Amy shuddered and turned pale at the 
recollection. 

“ Is this all, Signorina mia ? ” 

“All? Is it not enough ! The horror of it 
has never left me all day. The emblem of di- 
vine love has been used as a cloak for wicked 
ends — and by Churchmen ! ” 

“ I am sorry you discovered this thing, since 
it has impressed you so much. However, you 
may be mistaken in your supposition. An old 
rusty dagger sheathed in a cross does not nec- 
essarily prove crime. Monks in the old time, 
57 


Stories from Italy 

going on long pilgrimages, may have carried it 
as a defensive weapon.” 

“Thinking the worst,” he added, “it is an 
instrument of bygone days, has long been 
thrown aside, and the secret probably unknown 
to the late inmates.” 

“Of course,” said Amy, “but for such a 
thing ever to have been in use is too horrible. 
You will not speak of it to our friends? ” 

“No. I recognize the justice of your request 
that it should not be mentioned ; and in any 
case, the fact that you have honored me with 
your confidence is enough to seal my lips. In 
return, I ask a favor of you : try to forget it 
as unworthy of a second thought, and do not 
mention it in any of your letters, specially not 
to the English priest at Rome.” 

“ I will not,” replied Amy. 

“It is a compact then?” said Douglas, 
holding out his hand. 

She put hers in it. He pressed it gently, 
then bending his knee to the ground he touched 
it to his lips with a knightly courtesy. Amy 
turned away with a blush, which the gathering 
shadows could not all conceal from the earnest 
blue eyes that were bent on her. 

“ You seem a little tired this evening ; won’t 

58 


The Soldier and the Monk 


you take my arm?” asked Bevilacqua, with a 
slight diffidence, as if he expected to be re- 
fused. She took it, however, and as she was 
generally independent of such aid, he felt pro- 
portionately flattered by her compliance. She 
had been much depressed in spirits, and felt his 
manly presence a sort of protection against the 
ghastly phantasies that had taken possession of 
her imagination since the discovery of the un- 
hallowed cross. She felt that he was a friend 
to be trusted, and her heart grew lighter as 
she tripped along leaning on his strong arm. 
Douglas, pleased by her confidence and her 
willingness to walk with him, felt unusually 
happy and hopeful. 

Our hero was not without his little weak- 
nesses, and one of these was that he thought 
too much of personal comeliness. He was the 
reverse of vain, but he admired beauty so much 
in men and women that he thought others did 
in an equal degree, and the disfiguring scar 
across his forehead was a constant source of 
pain to him, so that he was glad that his hat 
and heavy dark plumes concealed it. He did 
not suspect that in the eyes of the woman he 
most wished to please, it had made him an 
object of respect and interest from the first 
59 


Stories from Italy 


day she met him. That was before last year’s 
campaign, for the wound was an old one re- 
ceived in the war of i860. On the disastrous 
field of Custozza he had shed his blood afresh 
in the cause of country and liberty, was the 
bravest amongst the brave, and had received 
the due recognition of his services. When 
he had appeared again before his English ac- 
quaintances with all his honors fresh upon him, 
he was in no wise stuck up, and with character- 
istic modesty avoided talking of any exploit in 
which he had taken a part. 

Amy looked with veneration at the medals 
which adorned the soldier’s breast on fete 
days as so many witnesses of his valor ; but 
more than these the ugly scar appealed to 
her imagination and her heart. Since Doug- 
las Bevilacqua’s return, the convent had not 
seemed quite so attractive ; this fact became 
apparent to Amy’s spiritual adviser, an Eng- 
lish Jesuit at Rome, and he had written a 
letter full of warnings against the hollowness 
and deceitfulness of man’s flattery, painting in 
glowing colors the tranquil happiness of a 
cloistered life. And the letter concluded by a 
vague but dark insinuation against the Liberal 
party, but more especially the officers of the 
60 


The Soldier and the Monk 


army, who were known to be utterly unscrupu- 
lous in all relations of life. Amy believed 
entirely in her hero’s honor, and nothing 
could shake her faith. But if the reverend 
father was right in the main, and the convent 
was the best place for her? She began to 
shrink more and more from the thought of it, 
when she reflected that she must never see 
Douglas again. 

The discovery of the morning — by such 
trifling circumstances are women sometimes 
influenced — injured the Jesuit’s cause and 
aided that of the soldier. Douglas Bevilac- 
qua’s respectful homage was sweeter to her 
this evening than it had ever seemed before. 
If it had been withdrawn, her life would have 
been dark and empty; yet she would not 
acknowledge this to herself, and still dallied 
with the idea of the convent. 

They walked on in silence, both occupied 
with their own thoughts for some time. 

“ Signor Douglas,” said Amy, at last. 

“ Arnica mia /” he responded, in a tone of 
tender deference ; and she saw a light in his 
eyes, as he looked down at her in the clear 
moonlight, which quickened her pulse, and 
made her fear that the final moment, which 
61 


Stories from Italy 


she would willingly have postponed, had ar- 
rived. She had not made up her mind, and 
she did not want to make it up yet. Was 
there still a mode of escape for her this one 
evening? Douglas was a modest wooer, sen- 
sitive and easily held in check. But here was 
the difficulty; she did not wish to hurt him 
in the slightest degree on this their last even- 
ing together ; so she tried to give the conver- 
sation an impersonal tone. 

" Don’t you think our dear frate is unhappy 
here alone?” she said. 

“ I am sure he is, poor fellow. I am sorry 
for him, for he has made our visit delight- 
ful. I cannot bear to think of leaving to- 
morrow; and you?” he asked. 

“ Oh, I have been very happy here, and I 
should have gone away with a most pleasant 
impression, if it had not been for that cross.” 

“ We have agreed to forget it, have we 
not?” said Bevilacqua. “ Let us think only 
of happy things on this our last night at 
Trecolli.” 

They were now near the house, and saw the 
others entering the porch. Bevilacqua paused, 
took Amy’s trembling hand off his arm, and 
stood before her in the pathway. There 
62 


The Soldier and the Monk 

seemed, indeed, no hope of escape for her 
now, and her brain grew giddy with the agita- 
tion arising from utter indecision of purpose, 
at what she felt to be the most momentous 
hour of her life. The letter of the priest ran 
through her mind ; she wished for more time 
to think. 

“ Cara arnica ,” said Douglas, and his deep 
voice was full of feeling, “ to-morrow night I 
start for Milan ; is it to be a final separation 
between us? ” 

“I trust not,” said Amy, with an effort; 
“ but how can we tell? ” 

“ If it be left to chance, we cannot, indeed,” 
he replied, “ but I do not want to leave it to 
chance any more.” 

He paused, but Amy was silent. 

“ Say one kind, encouraging word ! Do not 
make me feel as if I had been a presumptuous 
fool, building my hopes on a false basis.” 

Still there was no response. 

“ Do you wish me to leave you forever, 
then? I shall be gone before you wake in 
the morning.” 

“No, no,” said Amy, in a quivering voice, 
deprecatingly putting out one hand, which he 
gathered into his own. “ I don’t wish you to 
63 


Stories from Italy 

leave ; I should be miserable here if you left. 
Do not go away, pray; I have no friend like 
you.” 

She laid her other hand on his arm, and 
almost clung to it ; and as he looked into her 
face questioningly, he saw her eyes bright with 
tears. 

“Amie,” he said gently, but in the tone 
of a man determined to be played with 
no longer, “ I will remain on one condition 
only : if you give up all ideas of a convent, 
and — ” 

“ Oh, do not talk of it this evening J I 
have been miserable all day, and it has been 
such a relief to tell you everything. Now, do 
not spoil your kindness by making hard 
conditions.” 

“ Hard conditions ! ” he exclaimed in a 
tone of keen reproach. “ I think I had better 
go without another word.” 

But the magic touch of the little hand laid 
beseechingly on his arm again, and the soft 
eyes, glistening with tears, held him fast. 

“What would you have, Amie? You wish 
me to remain at your side, and forbid me to 
speak. Such a course is no longer possible. 
Having said so much, I am bound to say 
64 


The Soldier and the Monk 

more, and then you can decide for yourself. 
You know I love you. I have loved you since 
the first day I saw your sweet sad face, when 
you were still dressed in mourning. The first 
hour I talked to you I felt every look and 
word welcome and dear, as if I had known 
you for years. Perhaps you will say this pas- 
sion is too Italian — too sudden to be endur- 
ing. But has not my constancy been proved 
by long absence ? Have I ever given a 
thought to any other woman since I have 
known you, now more than a year, though I 
had not — nor have I yet — any proof that 
my affection has awakened a response? I 
have been content to worship your image, to 
live on the memory of kind words and smiles 
which meant nothing but courtesy, during 
long separation. But this state of things can- 
not continue.” 

“ Has any one seen Miss Burke and Bevi- 
lacqua?” cried the impatient voice of Arthur 
Burney at the porch. 

“Oh, let us go in ! ” said Amy. 

But Bevilacqua stood in her way. 

“ No,” he said, with the strong determina- 
tion of a gentle nature roused to action, “ I 
must have an answer.” 

65 


5 


Stories from Italy 

“ Give me this one night to think of it,” 
she pleaded. But he was immovable. 

“ Amie, once for all, you must choose be- 
tween me and the convent. You have known 
me long enough to understand my character, 
so that that does not require consideration or 
inquiry. You have no parents to consult, you 
are of age. Listen to the dictates of your own 
gentle heart, and it will guide you aright.” 

The ground was slipping away inch by inch 
from under Amy’s feet, as he spoke. She 
never admired him so much as at this mo- 
ment. She asked herself, could she bid him 
depart forever, and her heart answered, impos- 
sible. She was ready to yield at another 
word, when a shout of “ Bev-il-acqua ! ” star- 
tled her so, that, in her state of nervous excite- 
ment, she could not suppress a little cry. 

“ Speak, Amie, speak quickly!” urged the 
lover. 

“ Be it as you will,” she whispered, and 
gave him her hand. He pressed an ardent 
kiss upon it, murmured some ecstatic words 
of gratitude, and disappeared like lightning. 
Just as Mr. Burney was shouting “ Bev-il- 
acqua ! ” for the third time, the delinquent 
reached the entrance with hasty strides. 

66 


The Soldier and the Monk 

“ Eccomi qua / What is the matter, Bur- 
ney? How is Miss Janette? ” 

“ Oh, Janet is all right. But where have 
you left Miss Burke? What has delayed 
you ? ” 

“ Miss Burke is just at the end of the far- 
marcia , enjoying the moonshine and catching 
fireflies,” said the unblushing Bevilacqua. 

“ What does she want with fireflies? ” 

“ Chi lo sa ? perhaps to ornament her hat.” 

“ The supper is ready, and the frate does 
not like unpunctuality. Shall I go and fetch 
her, or will you ? ” 

“Let her be, she does not want either of 
us ; she will come herself,” said Bevilacqua. 

Burney turned and looked in his friend’s 
face. Bevilacqua was ready to give him the 
explanation which he felt he had a right to 
ask ; but he did not want to volunteer it yet. 
The Englishman was too delicate to ask it ; 
he knew the captain was a man of honor, and 
resolved not to meddle in the matter, lest he 
might spoil the romance of it ; and Bevilacqua 
was truly grateful to him. 


67 


CHAPTER IV 


Oh, Garibaldi, nostro Salvator ! 
Ti seguiremo al campo di onor. 
Garibaldian Hymn . 

RA GUALBERTO,” 
said Janet, the 
morning after the 
incidents related 
in the last chap- 
ter, at what was 
positively to be the 
final sitting, “you 
have been very kind and patient, and I am 
infinitely obliged to you. You have never 
even asked to see this miserable 1 counterfeit 
presentment ’ of yourself. Now, I am about 
to reward your patience and let you look 
at it.” 

She stood aside to make room for him in 
front of the easel. He regarded it for several 
minutes in silence. 

“Are you content, padre? I mean, of 
course, relatively so ; it is but a dauby sketch 
of an amateur.” 



68 



The Soldier and the Monk 

He turned his liquid dark eyes on her with 
an expression of pleased surprise. 

“ Signora Janette, I am more than content; 
1 confess I did not expect this portrait.” 

“ What did you expect? Tell me frankly,” 
said Janet, curiously. 

“ Why, a conventional portrait of a monk , 
taken chiefly for the sake of the costume; 
drawing weak, coloring extremely lively, de- 
tails elaborated, expression nil. I do not say 
your little work leaves nothing to be desired, 
but you have looked beyond the drapery, the 
outward aspects, and recognized the fact that a 
monk may have an individuality. I thank you.” 

Janet had, in fact, given her utmost powers 
to the study of her interesting model, but she 
was far from content with her production. 

“ It is a poor thing, after all ! ” she said ; 
“ but still it has a certain resemblance.” 

Mrs. Burney was delighted with it; and 
Arthur, though he criticised the execution, 
acknowledged that the likeness was striking, 
adding, — 

“ But you have put something in him, 
Janet, that I have never seen. I am not sure 
what it is, for the frate is deep, — would not 
be a frate else.” 


69 


Stories from Italy 

The same evening, after the usual walk, in 
which Bevilacqua had tried in vain to detach 
Amy from the rest of the company, and re- 
turned in what was for him a bad humor, all 
assembled in the sala. 

“ It is our last supper at Trecolli,” said 
Burney ; “ we are awfully sorry to leave. But 
for you, old fellow, who have heroically sacri- 
ficed yourself to your friends’ tastes, it will 
perhaps be less trying.” 

“ Che , che ! I have enjoyed it more than 
any of you,” replied Bevilacqua, truly. 

“ I cannot bear to think of leaving,” said 
Mrs. Burney; “it is like parting with some 
one we had known for years, instead of days.” 

“Ah, my friends,” returned Gualberto, in a 
tone of deeper sadness than theirs, “ your re- 
grets, I know, are sincere ; but what are they 
to mine? You return to home, friends, occu- 
pations, while I — This week has been an 
oasis in a weary desert — one bright halting- 
place in the weary march of life, which will 
leave me sad by force of contrast for a 
time, but will not be without some comfort 
afterwards.” 

Mrs. Burney pressed him to pay them a 
visit in Florence, all promised to return to the 
70 


The Soldier and the Monk 


monastery some future time ; and the supper 
passed cheerfully enough in friendly confiden- 
tial chat. The frate had produced a bottle of 
old vin-santo in which to pledge his parting 
guests ; and when they in turn drank to his 
health, he thanked them with ill-concealed 
emotion. When the supper was over, and 
they were all grouped together talking, Gual- 
berto said : 

“ My friends, on this last night that I shall 
be blessed with your dear company, I should 
like to relate you a true story.” 

The proposal was hailed with applause, and 
they all drew near the host, who was seated in 
a high-backed chair of dark wood, handsomely 
carved; his slender figure robed in cream- 
colored cloth, and a cowl of the same half- 
drawn over his head, concealing the tonsure, 
but not the black mass of straight hair over 
his forehead. He made a striking picture, 
and looked just as Janet painted him. He 
passed his hand over his eyes for a few 
minutes, as if collecting his thoughts. 

“ Shall it be a ghost story, padre ? ” asked 
Amy, looking round at the great dimly-lighted 
room and secret doors with a slight shudder, 
— for she had been fed on ghost stories in her 
7i 


Stories from Italy 

childhood, and the monk’s pale face and bril- 
liant cavernous eyes suggested the “ Ancient 
Mariner” to her imagination. 

“ No, my child,” he said, looking at her 
with a smile, half amused, half sad ; he some- 
times addressed Amy with the paternal figlia 
mia , because she was of his religion. “ 1 said 
it was a true story.” 

THE MONK’S STORY. 

My friends, I have assumed that you will 
not object to hear the history of this poor, 
shipwrecked brother man in whom you have 
manifested a kindly interest. 

I am Roman by birth. My father was a 
lawyer in a little country town. He died when 
I was young, and a reverend uncle took care 
of our farm and the family, consisting of my 
mother, sister, and myself. I was a wayward, 
unmanageable boy. Uncontrolled by a father’s 
authority, I was never taught how to check a 
naturally fiery, passionate nature ; and in mo- 
ments of rage, I was capable of doing and 
saying things which I bitterly repented after- 
wards. I was not revengeful or vindictive, 
and I loved my mother and sister tenderly. 

72 


The Soldier and the Monk 


Since I have become a man, I have often had 
occasion to reflect on the incalculable advan- 
tages of a judicious training in early life, such 
as I have seen in some families. To be strict 
without harshness, to be loving and not too 
indulgent, however, is what only some parents 
understand. My mother, buon' anima> was 
too fond, and my uncle — the priest — a little 
hard and unsympathetic, though a conscien- 
tious man in the main. 

I was sent to the school of the Scolopian 
Brothers, and then to the University of Bo- 
logna to study for a professorship, for I loved 
literature. I attained a considerable profi- 
ciency and had a fair prospect of issuing there- 
from with credit, when the eventful year of 
1859 came, and the blast of the war- trumpet, 
which called hundreds and thousands of youths 
from their avocations, roused my enthusiasm. 
The Liberal King of Sardinia had declared 
war against the Austrian oppressor of Lom- 
bardy, and volunteers from all parts of Italy 
flocked to his standard ; among the most de- 
voted of these were the Romagnuoli, and many 
left the university. My professor, who was a 
sincere friend, succeeded in detaining me at 
my post, till the unexpected peace of Villa- 
73 


Stories from Italy 

franca put an end to the campaign. But the 
Roman States and Naples being still unre- 
deemed, early in the following year of i860, 
Garibaldi sailed for Sicily with a few choice 
followers — one thousand in number — and 
called all the generous youth of Italy to his 
aid. I could no longer be restrained; it 
seemed a vile, selfish thing to remain at home 
under such circumstances, and I threw up my 
hope of an early appointment and hastened to 
join the great captain, whose army was swell- 
ing into thousands. 

I need not here relate all the strange com- 
panions fortune made me acquainted with in 
that motley band. Suffice it to say that there 
were fighting side by side, dressed in the same 
red jacket, some of the noblest and loftiest 
souls that ever breathed, hearts of pure gold, 
— and some composed of the coarsest clay, 
worthless adventurers devoid of principle. 
The thousand that Garibaldi had landed with 
were a glorious band ; but fever, fatigue, and 
war had thinned their ranks ; and in the mean- 
time, multitudes of native Sicilians swarmed 
into the camp daily, making a formidable 
host, which was regularly organized — as far 
as it was possible with such raw material — 
74 


The Soldier and the Monk 

and portioned into divisions under experi- 
enced officers. 

The most able and distinguished of Gari* 
baldi’s officers was General Nino Bixio, who 
has won fresh glory in the Royal Army last 
year, as Captain Bevilacqua can tell you. He 
was well suited for the severe discipline neces- 
sary to untrained troops. He was a man of 
plebeian origin, like Garibaldi, who had known 
every hardship, danger, and temptation it is 
possible to conceive, and had come out of all 
with pure hands, but rather hard and stern. 
He had a noble, commanding presence, with 
the high-arched nose that invariably goes with 
good generalship, and a clear, blue, piercing 
eye. I was under his command, and I ad- 
mired and revered him only a degree less than 
our adored chief himself, whom we young en- 
thusiasts regarded with a positive idolatry. 
His voice had a magic power to silence dis- 
cords and petty jealousies, shame cowardice, 
and inspire noble aspirations. After we had 
seen him and heard an address from him, we 
were sentient of nothing but the glory of liber- 
ating la patria , or dying for her under his 
leadership. 

I have said, and indeed it is almost need- 

75 


Stories from Italy 

less to say, that the volunteer army was not all 
composed of fine metal. There were a great 
mass of young Sicilians so ignorant and de- 
graded as not to be able to appreciate the 
words Patria e Liberta , so constantly on their 
tongue. They had joined the invading army 
from the force of example, or a vague hope 
that they would somehow gain a better living 
with less work, and some of them were almost 
starving. The Liberator would supply them 
with unlimited bread, and they put themselves 
under his command. They were not fire- 
proof, and being utterly untrained, they had 
not learned to control their fears or be 
ashamed of them. These rawest of recruits 
were given over by Nino Bixio to an English 
colonel, even more severe than our general 
himself. He usually put them in the front of 
the battle and made them advance at the 
point of the bayonet. 

On one memorable occasion — a day in 
which our chief was surprised alone and al- 
most lost his life — a day in which the most 
splendid heroism was displayed as well as the 
most abject cowardice — the English colonel 
at a critical moment, finding the Garibaldians 
harassed by a constant fire directed from a 
76 


The Soldier and the Monk 


garden, ordered his men to attack and dis- 
lodge the enemy. They were unwilling to ad- 
vance, even when he resorted to the desperate 
measure of sabring them right and left. Then 
the powerful Englishman, in a frenzy of rage, 
stooped from his horse, and seizing one of 
the men by the coat-tail and arm, flung him 
over the wall into the garden, then another 
and another ; when he had taken breath, he 
began di novo. The Bourbon troops — in 
point of fact little better than these misera- 
ble recruits — seeing the red shirts raining 
down upon them from the sky in this extra- 
ordinary manner, cried out, “ Oh, holy Ma- 
donna ! they can fly ! ” And the garden 
was cleared in a few minutes without waste 
of ammunition. 

This will give you an idea of what mixed 
materials our army was composed. Of the 
heroism you have heard much — but not too 
much. I may say that, without being accused 
of boasting of my corps — now. I was wit- 
ness of the most gallant deeds, which were too 
common to excite any attention or gain any 
reward, except a smile or word of approbation 
from our leader ; but as Bixio once said, “ That 
valued more than an order of knighthood.” 

77 


Stories from Italy 

I shall never forget the day we took 
Palermo, to the conquest of which Nino 
Bixio contributed not a little. He had 
brought his brigade by a forced march across 
the country in the night, under a heavy rain, 
and in the assault showed not less skill than 
daring. We, his followers, glowed with pride 
when in the Piazza the Dictator embraced 
him, and presented him to the applauding 
multitude ; and when our glorious chief turned 
his radiant face to us and spoke a few words 
of hearty thanks, calling us his “ figliuoli ,” 
every man felt it was a reward worth fighting 
for. The liberated citizens were profuse in 
their gratitude. They cheered, embraced us, 
feted us, and shouted Viva V Italia una ! till 
their throats were sore, and when unable to 
cry out any longer, they held up one finger as 
an emblem of unity. Ah, that was a happy 
day ! I was promoted to the rank of corporal, 
and for some days my life was joyful as busy. 
I had no presentiment of the evil that was 
about to befall me. 


78 


CHAPTER V 


The muffled drum is rolling, and the low 
Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, 
And stately steps are pacing round the square 
With slow and measured tread ; but every brow 
Is darkened with emotion, and stem eyes, 

That looked unshrinking on the face of death 
When met in battle, are now moist with tears. 

L. E. Landon. 

NE day, I was clean- 
ing my gun and 

accoutrements, 
when a young Pied- 
montese officer 
accosted me. He 

was of noble birth, 
had been educated 
in a military college, and had served in the 
Royal Army in the late campaign; but dis- 
gusted with the peace, had resigned and 

offered his services to the great Volunteer. 
In virtue of his superior knowledge and ex- 
perience — birth counted for nothing with 

our chief — he had the rank of lieutenant. 
He was a handsome, beardless boy, almost 
79 



Stories from Italy 


three years my junior, and had displayed a 
splendid courage in the recent action. I 
liked him, but constantly found myself at 
variance with him. He professed democratic 
principles, but I suspected he was proud of 
his pedigree ; and what irritated me most was 
his manifest contempt for the southern troops, 
their want of order, cleanliness, and endur- 
ance. For the rest, he was a generous, kind- 
hearted youth, and had a genial, pleasant 
manner when off duty, which disarmed my 
resentment. I secretly admired him, and 
envied the breeding and the training which 
had made him at so young an age a hardy, 
manly soldier of the old cavalier type. I 
heard him relate one day for the benefit of 
two or three southerns what the old Marquis 
D’Azeglio used to say to his sons : “A Pied- 
montese, when he has his two arms broken 
and a sabre through his body, may lament his 
sufferings but not till then” The Neapolitans 
generally cried out when hurt. 

I have told you that I had a fiery temper. 
On the morning in question, I was in an irri- 
table mood, and replied shortly to some slight 
rebuke about the manner of cleaning my gun. 
One sharp word led to another, and finally 
80 


The Soldier and the Monk 


the young officer, who was usually amiable, 
lost his temper, and said : “ Nothing could 
ever be made of a people who had to be 
driven to battle.” He knew I had never 
been one of those, but being angry, he lumped 
us all together. My Roman blood boiled at 
the insult ; I felt as if my brain would burst ; 
I lost the sight of my eyes, my reason, and I 
struck him with the gun I held in my hand 
and felled him to the ground. 

The narrator paused, and wiped the dew- 
drops from his forehead. No one spoke, and 
he continued : 

It seemed as if I were waking from a de- 
lirious dream, when I beheld the handsome 
youth a bleeding, lifeless form, stretched upon 
the ground, myself seized and handcuffed by 
angry men, who called me a cowardly assassin, 
a truculent ruffian , and such like. I was 
locked up in prison before I had recovered 
my senses. The truth came upon me with a 
deadly chill which froze my hot blood to ice. 
I had some hours to reflect on my crime, and 
the certain doom which awaited a soldier 
who had turned his arms against an officer — 
much less slain him — as it appeared I had 
done. 

6 


81 


Stories from Italy 


The same evening I was brought before a 
court-martial presided over by General Bixio. 
I shall never forget the anguish of soul I en- 
dured when I was led into the presence of 
my judges, and saw him, my honored com- 
mander, seated at the end of the table with 
his eagle eyes fixed on me. I wished that an 
earthquake could have opened a grave for me 
and saved me from the searching light of 
those blue eyes. I had loved and honored 
him, I was intensely ambitious of his good 
opinion ; and now I stood before him, a blood- 
stained culprit awaiting judgment. The busi- 
ness of the court was quickly despatched. 
Evidence was given as to the altercation 
which led to the assault, which had been par- 
tially overheard by some one near, and the 
perpetration of the deed ; a few whispered 
words passed between the officers, and I was 
asked by the president if I had any defence 
to offer. After the first glance on entering, 
I had not dared to look at my judges, but 
now directly addressed, I felt constrained to 
raise my eyes as I replied hopelessly : “ Signor 
Generale, I have no defence.” 

One of the officers looked at me compas- 
sionately with tears in his eyes, but the pres- 
82 


The Soldier and the Monk 


ident showed no emotion. His address was 
delivered in a calm, sad tone. I had offended 
in the highest degree against the moral law 
and against military law. The interests of 
the army and of the country required that strict 
discipline must be maintained ; he was deeply 
grieved to be forced to award a soldier of so 
much promise the heaviest penalty. The sen- 
tence of the court was that I was to be shot 
the following morning at eight o’clock. I was 
allowed a confessor of my own choice. 

The good old man soon obeyed my sum- 
mons, and found me in an agony of grief, 
trying to write a letter to my mother. Some- 
times I thought it best not to write, hoping 
she would think I had fallen in battle, but the 
fear that she would hear the whole truth in- 
duced me to give her the consolation of a 
last farewell. But when I set about writing 
“I must die to-morrow,” and pictured her 
grief as well as my sister’s, I was overpowered 
with such a bitter anguish that I could not 
command my pen. Thus the good old priest 
found me with my face buried in my hands 
on the table, sobbing convulsively, but with- 
out tears. “ Mia madre I mia madre ! ” was 
all I could say, when he tried to comfort me. 

83 


Stories from Italy 

At last, worn out with emotion, I became calm 
enough to listen to his talk and take in the 
meaning of it. 

“ Unhappy boy, you weep for your mother’s 
grief, and it is natural you should. But re- 
member that your hand has made another 
mother weep, as well as your own. Have 
you thought, my son, of raising your eyes to 
heaven and asking pardon for that greatest 
of sins? ” 

“ Is he dead ? ” I gasped. 

“ He still breathes in an unconscious state, 
but the surgeon says all will be over in a few 
hours.” 

My heart seemed to stop beating, and my 
brain reeled. I sat a little space stupe- 
fied, and then said : “ Padre, will you come 
to me at the dawn? I want to be alone now.” 

I passed a terrible night, which only those 
who have been similarly circumstanced can 
conceive. It was not that I feared death ; I 
was ever foremost in the fight, and was ready 
to die any day if duty or honor required the 
sacrifice. But the manner of it ! I had 
abandoned home, friends, and future prospects, 
with the lofty idea of contributing to the eman- 
cipation of my country, of shedding my blood 
84 


The Soldier and the Monk 

for her, if need be ; and I had finished by 
shedding the blood of an Italian brother ! I 
must die a disgraceful death by the hands of 
my comrades. My mental torture was such 
that I thought of self-destruction ; but, thank 
God, I put away the dreadful alternative as 
cowardly and base, as well as wicked. As a 
man and a soldier, I asked myself, shall I 
shirk the just punishment of my offence? 
And as a Christian, shall I dare to evade the 
Almighty’s decree ? — ought I not to drink the 
bitter cup to the dregs? 

“But let me not distress you by dwelling 
more on this miserable night, dear friends — 
if I may still call you so.” 

“ My dear fellow ! ” said Burney in Eng- 
lish, laying his hand on Gualberto’s shoulder, 
while Janet, who sat at the other side of him, 
with an impulse of kindly sympathy, put out 
her hand, which he pressed gratefully. Two 
big tears stole down Amy’s cheeks as she 
turned her head aside to remove them secretly, 
and Mrs. Burney hid her face in her handker- 
chief. The captain remained motionless, rest- 
ing his elbow on the table and his brow upon 
his hand in a thoughtful attitude. 

ss 


Stories from Italy 

It passed. The darkest and bitterest night 
must have an end, and morning dawn was wel- 
come to the condemned one, who knew they 
were digging his grave and loading their mus- 
kets to blow him to pieces two or three hours 
hence. In the lone hours of the night, my 
mind reverted to the suffering of other pris- 
oners of whom I had read ; and naturally I 
thought of Silvio Pellico, whose story I knew 
almost by heart. It had often brought tears 
to my eyes, particularly that pathetic passage 
where he speaks of his mother’s grief, and then 
consoles himself with religion, remembering 
what the mother of our Lord must have en- 
dured, witnessing the agonies of her spotless 
son. Something of Silvio’s sweet spirit of 
resignation found its way into my soul as I 
repeated his words. He led my thoughts 
heavenwards ; a flood of tears relieved my 
burning brain, as I knelt and prayed for par- 
don — pardon, not only for this crowning sin, 
but for all the minor indulgences in passion 
which had led up to it. When the priest 
came, I was able in a spirit of sincere repent- 
ance to make my confession and receive the 
blessed Sacrament. As the fatal hour ap- 
proached, I tried to be calm, for I had still a 
86 


The Soldier and the Monk 

soldier’s pride and wished to die bravely. But 
the letter which I now wrote and consigned to 
the priest stirred the fountain of tears again, 
and struggle as I would, I could not suppress 
them. 

“Must you leave me, padre?” I asked. 
“ Will you not accompany me to the ground ? ” 

“ I shall return in time,” he said, and left 
me to my own thoughts. I looked out through 
the narrow window into the court, and saw 
with a shudder my funeral prepared. The sol- 
diers, with their muskets ready for action, were 
assembled, and four officers who had sat on the 
court-martial were walking up and down, with 
their gray mantles flung over their shoulders. 
They all looked almost as unhappy as I felt 
myself. My grave, doubtless, was dug, and 
the bier at hand to carry me to it. The bells 
of the church close by began to toll for the 
dying. “He is in his last agony,” I thought. 
“ Shall his spirit’s flight be simultaneous with 
mine, and shall we meet face to face in the 
dread hereafter? Shall he appear with that 
gaping wound in his head, like Peter Martyr? 
Ah, merciful Christ, be pitiful to him, be piti- 
ful to me, miserable fratricide ! ” 


87 


CHAPTER VI 


Hence banished is banish’d from the world, 
And world’s exile is death ; then banished 
Is death mistermed. 

Shakespeare. 

Y door unlocked, and 
a young man en- 
tered softly with a 
black mantle and 
hat in his hand. 

“ Oreste, do you 
wish to live?” he 
asked. 

“ I have made up my mind to die,” I replied. 
“ But if you could escape — would you? ” 

I reflected a moment. 

“ What chance have I ? Do not mock me.” 
“ I do not mock you. If you will be free 
come with me this moment. Here is a hat 
and mantle ; shade your face.” 

“ Are you not afraid to aid a criminal in 
escaping? ” 

“ No — I am protected.” 

“ How? ” I asked. 



88 


The Soldier and the Monk 

“ That is a secret ; come." 

I put on the black mantle and hat, and 
followed him downstairs through a dark pas- 
sage, where he let me out by a little door into 
a back street. 

“Now you are free to go where you will; 
but mind you come not near a Garibaldian 
camp again; you understand? ” 

“Tell me to whom I owe this favor ; give 
me that scrap of comfort, I beseech you.” 

“ Will you swear on your honor not to re- 
veal it?” 

“I will — ” 

He whispered a name in my ear, which 
brought the blood to my pallid face in a flood. 
“And did he deign to occupy himself with 
me ? And I may not even thank him ? I must 
never look upon his face again, but fly at the 
sight of the camicia rossa , like the Bourbon’s 
hirelings. Oh, banishment, death was almost 
preferable ! ” 

I fled, I know not whither, nor did it matter, 
so that I put miles between me and the Gari- 
baldian headquarters. I had no heart even to 
ask the names of the villages through which 
I passed, and where I procured the scanty sup- 
ply of food which my light purse permitted. 

89 


Stories from Italy 


Life was given me, but deprived of all which 
makes life dear ; and there were moments when 
I wished myself at peace in the grave, so that 
I did not die by the hands of my comrades. I 
felt the brand of Cain upon my brow, and did 
not dare to ask lodging in a human dwelling. 

For the first two nights I slept in the chest- 
nut woods, which in the month of August in 
that mild climate was no hardship. A small 
proprietor, who found me on his land, offered 
me work, because so many of his contadini had 
gone to the war or taken to brigandage, as a 
more lively and lucrative employment than 
tilling the soil. I gratefully acceded, though I 
had never labored in the fields except in the 
grape-gathering and such like easy work. He 
paid me well, and after three days I moved on 
in the direction of Messina. 

On the afternoon of the second day after 
quitting the farm, I found myself in a wild 
and sterile region at the base of a mountain, 
which I afterwards knew was Etna. I had 
walked many miles, and sank down without 
spirit to seek a peasant’s house for food and 
shelter. 

The country was in a distracted and lawless 
condition, but more particularly that part of 
90 


The Soldier and the Monk 

the interior lying round Etna, where the ruf- 
fianism which is latent in all communities and 
comes to the surface in revolutionary times, 
had congregated. Sicily, it must be owned, had 
more than its share, for brigandage was an old 
institution of the country, which, like many 
other abuses, had been fostered by an atrocious 
government. The bad subjects were now so 
numerous and strong that they could dominate 
whole communities, murdering all who opposed 
them, and even those who did not, and com- 
mitting every sort of outrage. Redress seemed 
impossible, for the Bourbon soldiers were insti- 
gating and hounding on the assassins ; and the 
civil authorities seemed either paralyzed or 
criminal ; at least the Syndic of one commune 
was found to be in league with the marauders ! 

I was too poor and too miserable to fear 
anybody. I wandered off the road through a 
little wood, where I found an old tumble-down 
house apparently deserted. The lower part was 
a mere shed for beasts ; a flight of stone steps 
led to the upper appartment. It was empty, 
but there were two or three old pentolini , and 
such like necessaries for cooking ; an old table 
and a couple of benches, a large number of 
palliasses stuffed with leaves of the Indian com, 
9 1 


Stories from Italy 

composed the furniture. Here I thought I 
might find shelter for the night, for a storm 
was threatening. The idea of a fire was sug- 
gested to me by seeing a broken pipe and a 
few matches on the windowsill. I went out and 
gathered a bundle of broken and withered 
branches round the house, and when I had lit 
the fire, returned and brought large pieces 
that were cut up in the stable. When I had 
collected enough wood for the night, I drew 
one of the mattresses close to the fire and sat 
down by it, courting sleep, to make me forget 
the gnawing pain of hunger as well as my 
mental torment. Ah, if I had been an unbe- 
liever and thought that death would bring 
oblivion, annihilation, how gladly would I then 
have died, for my whole being was sentient of 
nothing but pain ! 

I sat there in a drowsy torpor, listening to 
the thunder rolling over the mountains. As 
the first big drops of rain began to fall, I was 
aroused by the loud talk of men, conversing in 
the patois of the country — to me an almost 
unintelligible jargon. I looked out and saw 
coming up the steps five unkempt, savage-look- 
ing men, with knives in their belts, carrying a 
sack of provisions and a hamper with several 
92 


The Soldier and the Monk 

flasks of wine. They expressed surprise on 
seeing me, and asked me what had brought 
me there ? I said I was a poor traveller who 
had taken shelter in what seemed a deserted 
house. Whence came I? From Palermo? 
Why had I penetrated so far into the country, 
and where was I bound for ? These questions 
were put in good Italian by one who seemed the 
leader, and who spoke with the accent of an 
educated man, in a mode which made me feel 
the necessity of satisfying my interlocutor. 
He played with the handle of his dagger 
while he was speaking. I was about to tell 
the truth when one of the men rudely snatched 
my black mantle off, and I stood in the camicia 
rossa, a confessed Garibaldian. 

“ A spy ! ” he roared. 

“ A spy ! ” was echoed on all sides, and 
knives were snatched from the belts instantly. 

“ I have wished for death, and it is 
come,” I thought, and I murmured an in- 
ward prayer. 

The captain signed for silence. “Let us 
hear his story,” he said; “why are you here, 
and why disguised with a black mantle ? ” 

“lama Garibaldian soldier. In Palermo 
some days ago I wounded an officer in a 
93 


Stories from Italy 

passion. I was sentenced to be shot, but 
escaped at the last hour, and he who aided me 
gave me the black mantle instead of my gray 
one* as a disguise. I have wandered about the 
country, to which I am a stranger. I had hoped 
to get to Messina and embark for Naples by 
this time, but I believe I have gone astray. 
This is why I find myself houseless and hungry 
in this desolate region.” 

The brigands questioned me further, and 
asked me if I knew anything of a proclama- 
tion by General Bixio, to the effect that he 
was going to destroy the Commune of Bronte 
with fire and sword. I said I did not, and 
asked if I might see the paper, which the chief 
took out of his pocket. He handed it to me, 
furtively watching me while I opened it with 
trembling eagerness and read. I have kept it 
always as a memorial of those days, and I will 
read it now. 

Bronte, Aug. 6, i860. 

General Nino Bixio, 

In virtue of the power received from the Dic- 
tator, decrees : 

That the village of Bronte, being guilty of 
treason against humanity, be declared under 
martial law. Inside of three hours, to begin at 

94 


The Soldier and the Monk 


noon, the inhabitants must consign their firearms 
and steel weapons, on pain of being shot. The 
municipality is dissolved, to be reorganized later. 
The National Guards are dissolved, to be reor- 
ganized later. The authors of the recent crimes 
are to be consigned to the military authorities 
to be judged by special commissions. A war-tax 
of ten ounces of gold is imposed, to be withdrawn 
when order is restored, etc., etc. 

Then there was a letter to the municipality 
of Cesaro, breathing vengeance. One para- 
graph ran to this effect : — 

“ An example is necessary, and they shall have 
a tremendous one. Let the good people rally to- 
gether, let the authorities be vigilant, the National 
Guards firm, and peace shall be established 
among us, and we shall return soldiers of liberty 
as we have come. 

“ The court of Naples has trained a portion of 
you to crime, and to-day it urges you to commit 
it. A satanic band directs assassination, incen- 
diary, robbery, in order to show you to horrified 
Europe, and say : Behold Sicily in liberty / Do 
you wish to be pointed at by your enemies as 
outside all civilization ? Will you oblige the Dic- 
tator to crush you ? With us few words are 
necessary. Either you remain quiet, or, in the 
name of justice and of the country, we will destroy 
you as enemies of humanity ! ” 

95 


Stories from Italy 


On that day, as I learned from the brigands 
afterwards, five of the ringleaders had been 
shot, which summary act of justice had sent a 
panic through the extensive society, and natu- 
rally made them suspicious of me. The cap- 
tain, however, believed my story. Seeing me 
unarmed, and judging by corroborative facts, 
he was satisfied that I was an outlaw like him- 
self. When the brigands knew that I had 
committed a crime they warmed to me, 
thanked me for having made the fire, and in- 
vited me to share their supper. And I, poor 
starving wretch, could not refuse to sit at the 
table with them. Was I not a bandito too? 
Would honest men ever again consort with 
me? The pain that shot through my brain at 
this reflection made me pause and set down 
my glass untasted. 

“ Su, comrade, drink, — ’t will put spirit into 
you. You get used to everything, I tell you. 
I felt badly myself at first,” said a rough but 
not unkind voice near me. 

I turned and looked at the speaker, and 
saw that a course of evil-living had not yet 
extinguished all traces of humanity in his 
heart. Reckless audacity, rather than cruelty, 
was written on his bold countenance. He 
96 


The Soldier and the Monk 

was still young, and I felt sorry for him. “ A 
fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind,” says 
the English poet ; and unconsciously I began 
to speculate on what besetting sin it was 
that had finally led this man to open crime. 
Had he been bred in a virtuous home, and 
had he, too, a mother weeping and praying 
for her lost sheep? Who can tell? I never 
knew. 

They related horrible stories, talked and 
laughed with a reckless gayety, and finally pro- 
posed that since I was banished from the 
civilized world, I should become a member of 
their society. I asked time to think of it, and 
when all had drunk deeply, and fallen into a 
heavy sleep, I rose softly, put some small 
change on the table to pay for my supper, 
stole down the stairs, and departed. The cold, 
wet air blew on my fevered brow and refreshed 
me. After a little time it ceased to rain, the 
moon came forth, and by its kind light I was 
guided on my way. I walked unceasingly, 
till the gray dawn found me in a village occu- 
pied by Neapolitan troops, and a sentinel, see- 
ing me pass the town hall, challenged me. 
Not finding my answers satisfactory, he 
brought me to his officers. My black mantle 
7 97 


Stories from Italy 

was quickly removed, and I was revealed a 
revolutionist. 

I was carefully searched, but no papers 
were found upon me, except a letter from my 
sister Gemma and the Proclamation. The 
colonel then invited me to give my own ac- 
count of myself. The truth had answered 
with the brigands, and I saw no reason why I 
should conceal it now. 

“lama Garibaldian, dismissed the service 
for a very serious offence.” 

The colonel and his subs laughed loudly 
and harshly. 

“ Why do you laugh, Signori? ” 

“ Do you expect us to believe that story? ” 
he said. “ Garibaldi dismisses no one. His 
army is composed of the dregs of all coun- 
tries. That won’t do, my friend; try some 
other game.” 

I felt my esprit de corps as well as my per- 
sonal dignity outraged, and I replied : 

“ You are misinformed, Signore. Our army 
has sons of the most respectable citizens, as 
well as many youths belonging to the most 
noble families of different parts of Italy.” 

“ Our army ! Ha, ha ! I have caught 
you. You make a bad spy; they ought to 
98 


The Soldier and the Monk 


have sent some one with a little furberia ; 
why, you do not know how to deceive a child ! 
It is an insult to my intelligence to tell me 
that Garibaldi dismissed you — instead of 
shooting you. You simpleton, we know his 
draconian laws, and how his officers have 
orders to shoot a man on the spot for merely 
robbing a vineyard. Now confess the truth; 
it is your only chance, for you know your 
neck is in the halter; you were condemned 
to death, and received grace on condition 
of undertaking the desperate service of spy. 
Lies will avail you nothing.” 

“ I am not a spy — I have no commission 
from Garibaldi or his officers. I have escaped 
with my life unconditionally. I have no more 
to say,” I answered. 

“ Well, I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do : either 
you lead us to the encampment of the rebels, 
or I ’ll hang you without shrift to the near- 
est tree.” 

What was I to do ? Miserable as I was, I 
still clung to life. A faint hope had awakened 
in my soul, that by some devoted service I 
might atone for my crime and die an honor- 
able death. I pictured scenes half-uncon- 
sciously in my mind, and thought how sweet 
99 


Stories from Italy 

it would be to save many lives of my brother 
volunteers for the one I had destroyed, and 
die in the act, like Arnold Winkelried, or like 
Pietro Micca, the Piedmontese, who fired the 
citadel and blew himself up to save Turin 
from the French. To escape hanging, then, 
I temporized, and said I could not lead the 
Neapolitan troops, because I did not know 
the way myself. 

“ It cannot be very far since you have 
walked it. You can guess the road you came, 
and you had better do it honestly, for if you 
try to escape — you understand — ” 

A significant gesture filled up the ellipsis. 
The troops were got out in marching order, 
and I was made to walk alongside the colonel’s 
horse in the middle of the train. 


ioo 


CHAPTER VII 


As orphans yearn for their mothers, 
He yearned to your patriot bands : 

“ Let me die for our Italy, brothers, 

If not in your ranks, by your hands 1 
Aim straight, fire steadily ; spare me 
A ball in the body which may 
Deliver my heart here, and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian away 1 ” 

E. B. Browning. 


DID not know the 
way to Bronte, nor 
to any of the five 
proclaimed com- 
munes. I had a 
vague idea that 
Bronte was not far 
from the hold of my 
hosts of the night before ; and as well as I 
could guess, I tried to lead the Neapolitan 
Royalists in an opposite direction, hoping 
by some accident to escape from their mur- 
derous hands. They had made me put on a 
coat similar to their own over my red shirt, so 
as not to attract attention. This I abhorred. 



IOI 


Stories from Italy 

but submitted to it as a necessity of the cir- 
cumstances. “ What matters the color of 
the coat, so as the heart remains loyal?” I 
said. We had not gone many miles when to 
my surprise and horror, as we were approach- 
ing a little hamlet on a wooded hill, I saw the 
glimmer of a red shirt behind a ditch. He 
fired his piece and fled ; in a few minutes 
the ground was swarming with volunteers, 
who, still in the shelter of the wood, opened 
fire upon the Bourbon troops. They were 
not so much taken by surprise as I was; 
probably they believed that I was leading 
them to the Garibaldian quarters, and they 
made haste to return the fire. 

I had often faced death in battle, and 
within the last week had been on the point of 
being despatched several times. On these 
occasions my sensations had been different 
each time. When the brigands found me I 
was so full of misery that I thought it would 
be just as well if they put me out of pain, and 
fancied that my having fallen into their hands 
was a sort of answer to an unspoken prayer. I 
did not shudder at the gleam of their knives. 
But the moods are various in the soul of youth ; 
and when I reached the Neapolitan quarters 


102 


The Soldier and the Monk 


and was threatened with death, I shrank from 
it : the death of a spy seemed horrible. In 
the interval hope had dawned again in my 
desolate heart, and I had begun to build an 
airy castle and plan schemes for serving my 
party. Now I was face to face with death 
once more, but with entirely new feelings ; the 
smell of powder fired my blood as of old, 
while the sight of my own beloved uniform, 
and the thought that I was standing in the 
ranks of the enemy almost drove me frantic. 
I had no weapon of any sort. “ Let me die 
now at last,” I said, wildly rushing towards 
the Garibaldian muskets, and wringing my 
hands in a frenzy. “ Is there no ball to re- 
lease me from this thraldom ? ” 

I threw myself into the Garibaldian ranks 
in a cloud of smoke, just at the moment when 
the ringing metallic voice of the leader cried : 
“ Alla bajonetta /” And his followers an- 
swered as one man, in a thundering roar : 
“ Alla bajonetta / ” 

I received a bayonet thrust in the arm, was 
borne down and trodden upon, and lost con- 
sciousness. The Neapolitan Royalists, though 
much more numerous than the volunteers, 
were routed, and the position carried in less 
103 


Stories from Italy 

than fifteen minutes; the vanquished threw 
away some of their guns, which the Garibaldi- 
ans picked up after the skirmish. 

I was taken with a few prisoners to the 
village inn. In the excitement no one had 
looked at me till I took off the coat of the 
Neapolitan soldier to have my wound dressed, 
when I was recognized with a shout of surprise. 
When my arm was bound up I was removed to 
a separate room and locked up alone. I sat 
for an hour nursing my wounded arm, feeling 
all my bones aching, wondering what fresh 
torture destiny had in store for me. 

I heard a stately tread and the clank of a 
sword in the passage, my door was unlocked, 
and a general officer entered. It was Nino 
Bixio. I rose with a military salute, and stood 
before him in silence. He looked haughty and 
stern ; and fixing his steel blue eyes on me as 
if they would pierce me through, he asked : 

“ What have you to say for yourself? What 
brought you here ? ” 

“ Signor Generale, I have been dragged 
here against my will by the Royalists. I fell 
into their hands after I had escaped from a 
band of brigands, and they forced me to ac- 
company them.” 


104 


The Soldier and the Monk 

“ They forced you to don their uniform and 
be their guide to my camp? Oh, shame, 
shame, shame ! Has . all sense of manly pride 
left your craven breast that you should accept 
life on such terms ? What ! betray your old 
comrades, betray the chief to whom you were 
bound by a dearer tie of allegiance than what 
unites a king and subject ; betray the sacred 
cause of country which you had sworn to de- 
fend ; and all to save your paltry life, already 
forfeited ! ” 

“ General,” I said, choking with agitation, 
“ I must submit to any insult from you, but it 
is hard to bear. I have, as you say, deserved 
death, but not this cruel accusation.” 

“ Words are idle, the facts speak for them- 
selves. You are found marching with the 
enemy, wearing their uniform, while they were 
aiming to surprise us. What motive could 
they have in bringing you along, except as a 
guide? ” 

“By all the blessed saints in paradise, I 
swear that I knew nothing of this intended 
expedition of yours, when, six days ago, I 
went forth a miserable bandito . I was totally 
ignorant of the geography of the country, and 
did not know where I was going, nor do I 
!°5 


Stories from Italy 

now know where I have wandered. Yester- 
day I took shelter from the storm in a house 
which proved to be a robber’s hold ; I fled in 
the dead of night to escape their contaminat- 
ing fellowship, and at daylight came, unawares, 
upon a detachment of Bourbonists, who took 
me for a spy and forced me to march with 
them. I heard last night you were at Bronte, 
and I meant to lead them away from there.” 

“ Enough, enough ; I want no more swear- 
ing. I mean to use you for all you are good 
for, that is, as a — guide.” 

A smile of ineffable scorn curled his proud 
lip. I ground my teeth to keep down the in- 
dignant words that were surging in me. 

“ Must I endure all this ? God, give me 
patience ! ” I said inwardly ; “ it is part of my 
punishment.” 

“ You must conduct us without delay to the 
brigands’ den you spoke of just now,” said the 
General. 

“ Signor Generale, I cannot.” 

" Signor Caporale, you shall.” 

“ It is quite impossible,” I replied firmly. 

“ What ! do you dare to refuse — you ? Do 
not provoke me too far, or you may rue it. 
Promise to lead me immediately to that den 
106 


The Soldier and the Monk 

of cut-throats, or by all that ’s sacred, I ’ll run 
my sword through your traitor heart ! ” 

His eyes blazed on me in light flames and 
stabbed me like daggers. He half drew his 
sword as he spoke. At the words cuor tradi- 
tore , I faced him proudly with head erect ; the 
worm will turn when it is trodden on. 

“ Strike, General ! The point of your blade 
cannot wound this traitor heart more than 
your cruel tongue. Death is not unwelcome 
to me, and I shall die by a noble hand.” 

My fearless attitude seemed to cool his rage 
somewhat. He stood looking at me intently 
for a couple of minutes. 

“ I made a mistake to-day,” I continued, 
“ when I was weak enough to temporize with 
the Bourbonists, instead of defying them and 
taking the consequences. I have suffered loss 
of reputation by that, but loss of honor would 
be still worse. It is grievous to me that you 
should take me for a traitor, but to be a traitor 
would be insupportable. Those brigands re- 
ceived me kindly ; I have eaten of their bread 
and sheltered under their roof, and I will not 
return their good offices by betraying them. 
You can but kill me ; and I don’t care how 
soon you do it. There ! ” 

107 


Stories from Italy 


While I was speaking, a gradual change 
came over Bixio’s face ; the fierce light died 
out of his terrible eyes, and he looked at me 
with a curious interest. 

“ Boy,” he said at last, “ you are right. I 
will not ask this thing of you. I take back 
my injurious words, and acquit you of blame 
in this matter. You are no traitor.” 

These words fell on my sick soul like balm 
of Gilead, and brought tears to my eyes, as I 
said : 

“ Signore, I thank you.” 

“ You have offended deeply,” he continued, 
“ and you have suffered, and still must suffer. 
Your burden is a hard one ; but bear it bravely, 
bear it with patience and honor, as you have 
done to-day, and it will grow lighter by 
degrees.” 

“ General, may I ask you a question?” 

He nodded an assent. 

“ Does he still live ? ” 

“ He was still alive when I left Palermo, 
but that was the day after you left yourself. 
They said he was breathing his last. Come 
with me now, I must set you at liberty.”. 

I took my cap and followed him downstairs. 

“ Have you no cloak?” he asked, seeing 
108 


The Soldier and the Monk 

me in the red shirt, and my arm bound up in 
a sling. 

“ I had one, but the Royalists deprived me 
of it. It is no matter, the weather is fine.” 

He went into a room on the ground-floor 
and brought one of the Garibaldian gray, 
which, by the fineness of the texture, I knew 
was his own. He threw it on my shoulders, 
saying : 

“ It will not do to expose a fresh wound in 
a night march. I advise you to go to Messina, 
cross to the mainland at once, and return to 
your own home.” 

We had now reached the garden gate, and 
he stopped, feeling for something in his pocket. 
I said : 

“ I have one more favor to ask, Signore ; 
the General — (Garibaldi was the General 
with us), I must never see him again — say I 
salute him humbly, and ask his pardon.” 

“ I will. Here is a month’s pay for your 
journey. God speed you.” 

“ I thank you from my heart for all, but I 
would rather not take the soldi I have not 
earned. The mantle I accept with gratitude. 
I thank you a thousand times more for your 
kind words : you know not what good they 
109 


Stories from Italy 


have done me, and will do me in the future. 
I cannot hold myself for lost while Nino Bixio 
believes in my honor. My General, I may 
call you so this once, adieu ! ” 

I was about to depart with a salute, when 
he, moved by a generous impulse, held out his 
hand. I caught it, pressed it to my bursting 
heart ; then rushed away into the wood, threw 
myself upon the ground, and wept bitterly. 


no 


CHAPTER VIII 


If prayers and tears and vigils lean 
A sin like mine can cover, 

I ’ll weep while summer woods are green, 
And pray till time is over. 

Gerald Griffin. 

PROFOUND sigh 
from Captain Bevil- 
acqua made the 
frate pause and look 
at his hearers. Mrs. 
Burney and Amy 
were in tears; the 
roses had faded from 
Janet’s cheeks, and her lips quivered with 
the emotion she struggled to suppress. No 
one volunteered a remark; their hearts were 
too full to speak. The narrator continued : 

It would be useless to recall the trials and 
hardships of my life after I was banished from 
the Army of the South, nor have I the heart to 
do it now. All hope of retrieving my position 
by some great service — wild dreams of san- 
guine youth — were now at an end. It was 
plain that Providence had willed it otherwise. 



hi 


Stories from Italy 

I should only get into fresh disgrace if I re- 
mained at the seat of war. I must never strike 
another blow for Italy and liberty. This, in 
itself, was a heavy punishment. Others were 
not wanting, but I will not dwell on them. I 
could bear physical hardships as well as any 
man. I struggled through my difficulties, and 
in the course of time I got settled employ- 
ment in a strange town. I had a situation as 
librarian, and I gave lessons on the guitar and 
singing in two or three private houses. There 
were a brother and sister, twins, of sixteen 
yearSj who learned from me, and became at- 
tached to me, and teaching them was the joy of 
my life. The girl was beautiful as the morning 
dawn, had a sweet sympathetic nature, but with- 
out strength or depth of feeling. I was not 
yet twenty-five, and love took possession of my 
heart, an intense, all-absorbing passion, which 
swallowed up all other feelings for the time 
being. The dark cloud rolled off my soul, and 
I felt as if I trod on air. If at moments I felt 
the biting tooth of remorse, it was soon for- 
gotten in the abiding .joy of requited love. 
Stella seemed to me an angel of light sent to 
rescue me from despair, and gratitude mingled 
with the passionate devotion which I laid at 


I T 2 


The Soldier and the Monk 


her feet. Her parents gave a reluctant con- 
sent to our marriage, which was to be postponed 
for some months. It was a period of happiness 
and torment mingled. Stella was much ad- 
mired, and I was a jealous lover. Her mother 
was a bitter codina , and disliked me because I 
had been a Garibaldian, and thought her daugh- 
ter might have done better. As the time ap- 
proached for our marriage, the mother became 
more cold, and began to put obstacles in the 
way of our intercourse. I was supposed never 
to see my beloved except in the presence of 
her antipathetic parent ; but her brother, Ed- 
mondo, was devoted to me, and by his means 
we occasionally had short stolen interviews. 

At last the father told me that his wife had 
heard strange stories about me. “ Even the 
Garibaldians, who, heaven knows, are not par- 
ticular, have refused his company,” she said, 
“ because he belonged to a band of brigands 
and took part in murder.” 

Stella did not stand by me in this crisis as 
she ought ; she wanted that whole-hearted, 
generous devotedness which so many women 
display. She lent an ear to her mother’s tales, 
and I could hardly forgive her, so we quarrelled 
too bitterly ever to be reconciled. What was 

8 113 


Stories from Italy 

there in life worth living for now? The joys 
of love had been brief, and turned to ashes like 
Dead Sea fruit. It was plain that the Nemesis 
was to pursue my crime for ever. “ Useless to 
hope to evade it,” I said. “ There is no place 
for repentance in this weary world. The hap- 
piness that other men may hope to attain is 
not for such as I. I have dared to forget that 
the curse of Cain is upon me. Let me hide 
myself in a monastery, and spend the rest of 
my life in fasts and prayers, so that I may 
win heaven’s pardon at the last.” 

I professed under the name of Gualberto, 
whose suggestive story reminded me of my own. 
I am not yet thirty-one, but the sufferings of 
seven years have made me prematurely old. A 
sort of peace I have known since I retired from 
the world — the peace of a heart dead to all 
human emotions. 

The frate ceased speaking, and breathed a 
long sigh, which was echoed by the others. A 
profound silence reigned in the apartment. 
Bevilacqua, still leaning his elbow on the table, 
raised his head and fixed his eyes on Gualberto 
with great earnestness. Gualberto pushed back 
his cowl, leaned his head against the back of 
his chair, and turned his dark eyes on Bevi- 


The Soldier and the Monk 

lacqua with an equally steady gaze. To the 
bystanders the look exchanged was pregnant 
with some deep meaning. The soldier and the 
monk rose simultaneously to their feet. Gual- 
berto was very pale, but Bevilacqua’s face was 
flushed, and the great scar showed a crimson 
line across his white forehead. 

“ Fabrizi,” he said, as if answering unspoken 
words, “ your sad story has moved me deeply. 
I am grieved to the heart to have been the 
cause of so much sorrow to you. Can you 
forgive me?” 

And the honest soldier held out his hand. But 
Gualberto did not see it ; a mist obscured his 
vision as he sank upon his knees and exclaimed : 

“ Merciful God, I thank Thee ! ” 

Then rising, with a graceful motion he 
turned to the captain and said : 

“ Signore, you have a generous mind, and 
bear me no ill-will. But I have sometimes 
dreamed a happy dream that you were alive, 
and had pronounced the blessed word pardon . 
Let me hear you say it now.” 

“ I pardon you from my heart — if I have 
anything to pardon. God is my witness that 
I never bore you any ill-will, and if I could 
have reversed the cruel sentence, I would.” 


Stories from Italy 

He again offered his hand, which this time 
Gualberto took and pressed warmly. “Did 
you suffer much from the wound? ” he 
asked. 

“ Not more than I deserved,” replied Doug- 
las, flushing. “ I am ashamed to think of the 
insolent words that fired your hot blood to 
madness. It was all my fault ; and what was 
my suffering to yours? ” 

“ You are too generous, Bevilacqua. I can- 
not so exonerate myself. But you are alive 
— my dream is realized — it was worth liv- 
ing for these seven weary years — you are 
alive — praises be to the All Merciful ! ” 

“ If I had only known where you were — 
if I could even have saved you from the mon- 
astery ! Oreste, how could you, who once 
wore the camicia rossa with so much pride 
and honor, ever assume the monk’s frock?” 

There was in the bersagliere's tone a slight 
suspicion of contempt for the gown, though 
not for the wearer ; and the sensitive frate felt 
it and replied : 

“No man can judge for another ; the heart 
alone knows its own trials.” 

“That is true — pardon,” said Bevilacqua, 
somewhat abashed. 

1 16 


The Soldier and the Monk 


“ Nulla , mio caro ,” returned Gualberto, 
gently. Then laying his hand on the officer’s 
stalwart shoulder he added : 

“You must not suppose that I have for- 
sworn my political creed in assuming the 
cowl.” 

“ I concluded as much from your narrative. 
Yet when I came here first, you seemed to 
look askance at my uniform.” 

“ I was startled on seeing the name Bevi- 
lacqua on your card, but believing you to be 
dead I thought it was some relative. The dif- 
ference of uniform, and the change which 
seven years makes in a young man, prevented 
an immediate recognition. The probability 
that you were a cousin of the dead man agi- 
tated me deeply, and I had to retire to com- 
pose myself. When you removed your hat, 
and I saw the scar, and heard you talk, the con- 
viction forced itself upon me that it was you 
yourself in the flesh, and I hardly could stand 
upright or speak while I was helping to serve 
the luncheon. I stole away as soon as pos- 
sible to think, and my joy was so intense that 
it bewildered me for a time. When I became 
calm, I decided to await recognition from you. 
But you had passed in review so many hun- 
117 


Stories from Italy 

dreds of black-haired youths, that you had for- 
gotten me.” 

“ Caro mio , how could I expect to find a 
Garibaldian in a convent? Yet there was 
something familiar to me about you — a vague 
recollection which I could not define ; and this 
recollection was strongest at the moment when 
you warmed up reading Francesca da Rimini. 
You reminded me of some one, and I could not 
think who. You are changed, Fabrizi, very 
much changed. Since I have been the un- 
happy cause of driving you into the convent, 
let me be the means of drawing you out of it. 
Help me, my friends,” he said, turning to 
the others, “ to persuade him that there is a 
man’s work to do in the busy world, and that 
he is shirking his duty in living as a hermit.” 

The painter came forward and shook hands 
with Gualberto, saying : 

“ First let me congratulate you on the 
happy upshot of your story; and, next, let 
me add my voice to that of Bevilacqua and 
entreat you to leave this place. I never had 
a feeling since I have known you that was 
not mingled with a regret that you were a 
monk. What say you, Miss Burke? ” 

“Fra Gualberto should be guided by his 
118 


The Soldier and the Monk 

own convictions,” she replied timidly, glancing 
at Douglas, and feeling like a renegade. 

“ Dissebene la Signorina ,” assented the frate. 

“ Oh, Fra Gualberto,” said Mrs. Burney, 
“ you could not think of remaining here now ; 
it was all a mistake your taking the veil — 
I mean the cowl. Besides, your community 
is dissolved, and you are left here all alone, 
like Robinson Crusoe on the desert rock; 
you cannot hold yourself bound as a member 
of a society that no longer exists.” 

“ I must consider the matter,” he replied. 

“ Signora Janetta,” said the bersagliere , 
appealing to his last witness, “ you have not 
spoken.” 

“ Che vuol che le die a io ?” said Janet. “ I 
am a heretic, and don’t believe in convents, 
except as graceful relics of the past. From 
my point of view, such vows, taken in a mo- 
ment of despair, under a misapprehension, are 
not binding. But I repeat, it is the point of 
view of a heretic antagonistic to the system, 
and may be faulty.” 

“ It is a perfectly just conclusion,” said the 
captain, in an unusually dogmatic tone. The 
frate had turned politely to each speaker, his 
eyes bright with suppressed excitement, 
i t 9 


Stories from Italy 

“ I must think over it, my friends ; it is a 
serious question. Permit me to retire. Felice 
notte a tutti .” 

Every one shook the frate’s hand cordially, 
which they had never done till this evening ; 
and when it came to Bevilacqua’s turn, he held 
it for a moment and said : 

“ May I come to your cell later, Fabrizi? ” 

“ I should be very glad if you would.” 

As soon as he was gone, Bevilacqua went 
out on the terrazzo , which opened off the sala , 
where he was accustomed to smoke before 
going to bed, and the rest began to discuss 
the frate, who had excited the warmest 
sympathy. 

“ What a handsome fellow he is,” said the 
painter, “he is just like a statue walking 
about ; he wears his gown with the grace of a 
Roman senator in a toga.” 

“ Yes,” said his wife, “ he would have made 
a beautiful St. Francis at the moment he sank 
upon his knees and raised his eyes — what 
magnificent eyes ! Ah, Janet, you ought to 
have had your brush in hand ! Such an atti- 
tude and expression you can never catch 
again ! ” 

“ Only an Italian monk could do that sort 


120 


The Soldier and the Monk 

of thing without appearing ridiculous and 
theatrical,” said Mr. Burney; and then he 
repeated Emerson’s lines, — 

“ I like a church, I like a cowl ; 

I love a prophet of the soul ; 

And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles. 

Y et not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 

Which I could not on me endure ? n 

Amy’s sympathy for the frate was mingled 
with thankfulness that she had not been in- 
duced, in her day of sorrow, to take the irrevo- 
cable vows. Every moment made her more 
content and happy with the fate that had been 
reserved for her — almost forced upon her. 
And the more happy she felt in the possession 
of a noble heart, the more she pitied the frate. 
She knew Douglas was deeply saddened by the 
story, and she felt she owed him some atone- 
ment for the manner in which she had re- 
ceived his simple, manly offer. He was leaning 
over the railing of the moonlit terrazzo in a 
meditative mood, when a soft little hand was 
slipped into his. 

“Amie!” he cried, with a start of joyful 


I 2 1 


Stories from Italy 

surprise, flinging away his cigar. Then he 
remembered he had a grievance, and said : 

“ Why have you been so unkind to me all 
day?” 

“ I did not mean to be so, Douglas. I could 
not get away from Mr. Burney this evening 
without being remarkable ; but I wish to say 
a word to you before retiring.” 

“ Par la, mia diletta ! ” 

“ I think when a man lays the most pre- 
cious gift in his power at a woman’s feet, he 
is entitled to thanks at least, even if she refuse 
it. I did not and could not refuse it ; but I 
accepted in an almost ungracious manner. But 
I was not ungrateful, only puzzled and bewil- 
dered. Now I have no doubt of our future 
happiness, and I thank you for having forced 
me to a timely decision.” 

He answered with a smile : “ Angelo mio , 
how good of you to come to say this to me to- 
night when my heart is sad for this poor frate, 
my old comrade. But I was not dissatisfied 
with your answer. You called me your best 
friend ; I have no rival but the cloister, and 
that is demolished ; you will soon learn to love 
me, non e vero ? ” 

Amy was deeply touched by the pleading 


122 


The Soldier and the Monk 


tenderness of his tone. She desired to respond 
as he would wish, but the Italian language 
presented an amusing difficulty. They had 
hitherto addressed each other in the third 
person, and though Douglas had begun quite 
naturally to tu-toi her this evening, Amy was 
so unfamiliar with that form that it did not 
come so easy to her. At the same time she 
could not continue to address her betrothed 
as Lei. He saw her hesitancy, felt a little 
nervous flutter in the hand he held, and 
pressed it, waiting patiently for her to speak, 
and thinking how lovely she looked in the 
moonlight. 

“ Douglas, I love you now, — I have loved 
you long,” she said softly in English, and it 
could not have seemed sweeter in any other 
tongue. 

He clasped her to his heart and pressed a 
kiss upon her forehead, murmuring raptur- 
ously, “ Anima mia 1 ” 

Amy was not less glad in her quieter way. 
She wanted to be alone with her happiness, 
and tried to escape, but he detained her with 
a gentle force. 

“ Stay yet a moment, Amy ; I have waited 
long and patiently for this hour, and the joy it 
123 


Stories from Italy 

brings me atones for the doubts and pains of 
the past year. But if you are in such haste to 
leave me the moment you have spoken, I shall 
think it is all one of my foolish dreams. Let 
me realize that the phantom which divided 
us is banished, and that you are really mine. 
Tell me a little how and when you began to 
love me.” 

“ I cannot tell how or why, only I know you 
interested me the first time you talked to me ; 
you were more simpatico than any one I had 
ever known. Still less can I tell when, for it 
seems to me now that I loved you all along 
without knowing it. I do not remember the 
time when I could have parted from you with- 
out sorrow.” 

“ But when you loved me, dear — unworthy 
as I am — why did you make me unhappy by 
hesitating so long?” 

“ My dear Douglas, you never told me you 
were unhappy till last evening,” said Amy with 
an arch smile. 

“Very true; what an ass I have been! 
And I might have lost you.” 

“ No,” said Amy, “ I do not pretend that 
I was ignorant of your feelings — at least 
not altogether. But for a long time I, 
124 


The Soldier and the Monk 

too, had my doubts ; I was warned against 
officers.” 

“Yes — I understand. I knew there was 
some malign influence at work. But now?” 

“Now — and for the last two months I am 
convinced that you are sincerely and entirely 
devoted to me, and the Pope himself could not 
persuade me to the contrary, or make me be- 
lieve that there is a shadow of deception in 
your heart. Art thou satisfied?” she added, 
returning to Italian and venturing on the tu , 
to the great delight of her lover. “I must 
leave thee now, Douglas ; good night.” 

“ Good night, my joy. May the good angels 
guard and keep thee ! ” He put his arm 
round her and would have taken a parting 
salute, but Amy, who felt her brow still warm 
with the first kiss of love, timidly shrank from 
another, hiding her face against his arm for a 
moment. Most lovers would not have been 
deterred by this gentle denial, but Douglas 
withdrew his arm, and, kneeling, kissed her 
hand with profound devotion. He acted from 
impulse, but he could not have hit on any 
way so sure to complete his conquest. Amy 
was penetrated and melted by his chivalrous 
bearing. Before he could rise she laid her 

125 


Stories from Italy- 

hand on his shoulder, and bending down put 
a kiss upon his forehead and then vanished, 
leaving him kneeling there spell- bound, as if 
he had been touched by an enchanter’s wand. 

Janet had been alone for some time in the 
room which the girls jointly occupied. When 
Amy entered with glowing cheeks and a strange 
light in her eyes, she asked : 

“ What is the matter, dear? ” 

And Amy put her arms round her friend’s 
neck and whispered her secret ; she could not 
yet speak it aloud : it was too new and over- 
whelming. Janet kissed and congratulated 
her. 

“The convent question is settled forever. 
The captain has triumphed as he deserved to 
do. Oh, you wicked little saint ! ” she said, 
laughing softly and smoothing Amy’s glossy 
hair with her white hands. “ I am so glad for 
his sake as well as yours. He is a noble fel- 
low, and so modest in his estimation of him- 
self that he does not do himself justice. I 
fancy I am a judge of character, and I think 
you are most fortunate in having won the af- 
fection of such a man.” 

Amy trembled with delight, listening to his 
praises, and she thanked her friend with a kiss. 

126 


CHAPTER IX 


Of Love that never found his earthly close, 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? 
Or all the same as if it had not been ? 

But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love ? 

O three times less unworthy ! Likewise thou 
Art more through love, and greater than thy years. 
The sun will run his orbit, and the moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait ; my faith is large in Time, 

And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

Tennyson. 

T was late when 
Douglas Bevilacqua 
tapped at the door 
of the monk’s cell 
and found him in 
deep meditation. 
These two had never 
been real friends 
when they were brothers-inarms ; but now 
the fact of having exchanged mutual forgive- 
ness drew them together. 

127 



Stories from Italy 

“ My dear Fabrizi,” said Bevilacqua, affec- 
tionately, “ I could not go to bed without a 
word with you in private. Let us have a little 
chat.” And he seated himself on the frate’s 
bed with an air of good comradeship, and 
looked at him with such a bright happy face 
that Gualberto almost envied him, not with 
the vulgar envy of the malicious, but the sad 
feeling that steals over us when we contrast 
our fate with a more fortunate brother, and 
wish we were like him. 

“ Say on, Signor Douglas : I like to hear 
you talk. I never thought to hear your voice 
again, and it is music to me.” 

“ Via / No more of that nonsense, old friend, 
if you love me,” returned Bevilacqua. 

“ You have brought me a great consolation 
which you cannot take away with you ; why 
should I not speak of it?” 

“ I have brought nothing but sorrow into 
your life, and I would repair the mischief. I 
want you to leave this place,” returned Bevi- 
lacqua. “ I cannot be happy myself when I 
know you to be here alone in this dreary soli- 
tude with no aim in life — and I the cause ! 
Fabrizi, you must doff this gown and come out 
and live like other men.” 

128 


The Soldier and the Monk 


“ Sfratarmi V ’ exclaimed the monk. “ Never ! 
The world despises — and I despised when I 
was in the world — an unfrocked monk, a for- 
sworn priest. He has lost his place in the 
world, and there is no room for him there. 
Let him remain in the niche, where in a 
moment of madness or folly he thrust him- 
self.” 

In those last words Gualberto betrayed un- 
consciously a bitter disappointment in the life 
he had chosen, and Douglas saw it. 

“ My dear fellow,” he said, “ I do not wish 
to o'ffend your esprit de corps , if you have any ; 
but you cannot be ignorant of the estimation in 
which monks are held in our day c The world 
does not despise an unfrocked monk any more 
than those who are in their convents. You 
must know that no one now believes in them as 
a body ; and you have not been four or five 
years among them without knowing how little 
respect they are entitled to. There are excep- 
tions — yes, of course, and you are one of them. 
You lead the life of an ideal monk, for you are 
modelled in the antique mould of the early 
saints. You are a dreamer who lives in books 
and in an abstract world, and do not see what 
the real world is doing all around you. Do you 
9 129 


Stories from Italy 

remember, Oreste, how you used to have a book 
in your pocket, a Dante or a Tasso, for snatch 
readings in camp ; and how I, ignorant young 
ass, used to depreciate books, and tell you they 
interfered with a soldier’s duty?” 

“ Do not remind me of it, I was so happy 
then ! And do you know I liked you in spite 
of our disagreements, and if any one had said 
a word against you, I would have been up in 
arms.” 

“ I knew it — and I can never tell you 
how I grieved for your misfortune. I made in- 
quiries, but by the time I had recovered you 
were nowhere to be found in Sicily,” said 
Bevilacqua. 

“ Signor Douglas — ” 

“ Do me the pleasure of calling me ‘ Douglas * 
simply. We are friends now forever, are we 
not?” 

A warm pressure of the hand was the frate’s 
only answer, and he sighed. 

“ Come, Oreste, it is never too late to 
correct a mistake, to retrace a false step,” 
urged the soldier. “ Society may call you 
inconstant of purpose, but those who know 
you will appreciate your motive and esteem 
you. How many monks and nuns have re- 
130 


The Soldier and the Monk 

turned to their homes since the suppression 
of the convents?” 

“ I cannot be one of them ; I cannot take up 
my life of citizen where I dropped it — would 
that I could ! but it is impossible.” 

“ Do not say impossible , amico mio , if you 
would not transfer to my shoulders the burden 
of remorse which you have borne so long,” 
said Bevilacqua. 

“No, no, Douglas, I meant no reproach to 
you ; you must not take it to yourself, for you 
are not to blame. I simply meant to say that 
when one takes a solemn pledge, he or she ought 
to abide by it. It may be a terrible mistake ; 
but a monk has no more right to ignore his 
vows than a man has to repudiate his wife, be- 
cause he finds her not exactly to his taste after 
marriage.” 

“You did not speak so decidedly a few 
hours ago in the sala ,” said Douglas. 

“ I was then under the influence of strong 
emotion. The sympathy which my story had 
awakened in the kind hearts of your friends 
had roused in me a corresponding feeling. I 
had not reasoned over the matter ; I listened 
only to the dictates of my heart. The happi- 
ness I have tasted amongst you had awakened 

131 


Stories from Italy 

a craving, long dormant, for human affection 
and social intercourse. Now I have considered 
the matter calmly, and I have come to the con- 
clusion that I ought to remain where destiny 
has thrown me.” 

“ I think you are wrong ; it is not your 
vocation, you confess it — and I see it in your 
worn face ; there is yet time to retrace the false 
step. I cannot bear to think of your wasting 
your life here with no hope for the future.” 

“ I have a hope — in the distant future ; 
that must suffice me,” returned the monk with 
a far-away look in his bright, cavernous eyes. 

“ You are still young, and much is forgiven 
to youth. You can retreat with honor from 
an untenable position, but not after you have 
deliberately sworn that you will never quit the 
field alive,” said Douglas. 

“You forget that I have already sworn,” 
replied the frate with a smile of inexpressible 
sadness. 

“That was in ignorance, before you had 
tested the ground and found yourself deceived. 
You are still young, as I say ; can you hold on 
to the end ? ” 

“ Strength will be given me.” And he 
turned his eyes to the crucifix beside his bed. 

132 


The Soldier and the Monk 

“ My dear friend, tempt me no more. You 
will only make my trial harder, but not alter 
my determination. Do not think that this 
poor worn heart is insensible to friendship, or 
that it does not throb with renewed life since 
you have been near me, and will not ache 
when you are gone. But there will remain 
the ineffable consolation of having seen you 
and received your pardon.” 

“ Oh, do not talk of that, Oreste,” said Be- 
vilacqua. “ I feel now that the offence was 
all mine, and you are the scapegoat. It is hard 
if seven years’ penance cannot atone for one 
rash deed, and when I was equally blame- 
worthy. How can I be happy while you are 
wretched? ” 

“ Providence has willed it so,” returned the 
frate in a resigned tone. “Tell me, my 
friend, before parting, if what I suspect is 
true; may I congratulate you?” 

“ Yes,” replied Bevilacqua, coloring, “ it is 
true, and I should be supremely happy to-night, 
if it were not for you.” 

“ Be happy, atnico mio ; do not let a thought 
of me damp your joy. I can never be miser- 
able again. I shall leave this place, and go on 
a mission to China or California; and en- 
133 


Stories from Italy 


gaged in active work with fellow-laborers, I 
shall have no time for idle regrets.” 

There was something final in the tone of 
the last words, and the captain rose. 

“You have taken this resolve from high 
motives, and I have no right to urge you 
further. Every man’s own conscience must 
be his guide. God be with you and support 
you.” 

Bevilacqua spoke with a solemn sadness un- 
usual to him. He looked at Gualberto as at a 
friend about to be laid in the grave. Then he 
put his arms round him and embraced him in 
the same funereal manner with tears in his eyes. 

“ Don’t take it to heart so, my dear Doug- 
las,” said the frate, returning the embrace. 
“ If I were going to fight a foreign enemy of 
our country with material weapons, you would 
not weep over me.” 

“ No, ah, no ! that would be very different. 
I am thinking of the long weary years you 
must spend alone, without home, country, 
friends, or family ; with no companionship to 
help and cheer you on your way. And I the 
caused 

“ I am not so much to be pitied as you 
suppose ; in seven years I have learned to bear 
*34 


The Soldier and the Monk 

my burden with patience ; and when once we 
have learned to submit, nothing is a hardship. 
We make our own misery .” 

Seeing Bevilacqua deeply moved and un- 
able to reply, he laid his two hands on his 
shoulders, and looking into his face said calmly 
and affectionately : 

“ Believe me, dear friend, what is, is best. 
What is the use of murmuring against our lot ? 
If you ordered one of your men to keep guard 
at night, would you alter your decision because 
he grumbled about the cold? You must try 
to think of your friend as a soldier who renders 
a willing obedience to his commander. Now 
go, be happy, and God bless you ! ” 

On the threshold they clasped hands again 
as Douglas echoed back his “ God bless you ! ” 
from the depth of his heart. When he was 
gone, the frate shut the door, and threw him- 
self on his bed with a groan. Douglas sought 
his cell with a weight upon his spirits which 
he did not think could have been possible 
on the night that he was the accepted lover of 
Amy Burke. No rose without a thorn, and his 
thorn pricked sharply just then. 

The sad day of separation dawned brightly 
and beautifully over Trecolli ; and the travel- 
x 35 


Stories from Italy 


lers were up and out of doors before six 
o’clock, taking a last look at their favorite 
haunts ; for this quiet, uneventful week in a 
monastery marked an epoch in the inner life 
of some of the inmates. Janet was alone in 
the cloisters, where much of her time had been 
spent painting the portrait. Fra Gualberto 
was in the garden making three splendid 
bouquets for the guests, according to Italian 
custom ; and when he had finished, he, too, 
sought the cloisters, carrying in his hand a 
spray of tea-rose buds. 

“ Signora Janetta, I thought I should find 
you here taking a last look at the frescos. I 
have brought you your favorite flower, but I 
see you are already supplied.” 

Janet had, in fact, already plucked a yellow 
rose, and fastened it in the bosom of her 
dark-green dress; but she put out her hand 
for his flowers. 

“ Let us exchange,” said Gualberto, “ give 
me yours.” 

She unfastened her rose and gave it him, 
placing his buds in its stead. The frate slip- 
ped the flower inside the breast of his gown. 
“ Do you know that I have resolved to remain 
in the Order?” he asked. 

136 


The Soldier and the Monk 

“ Captain Bevilacqua has just told me.” 

“ I shall go on a mission to California. I 
could not stay here — the memory of these 
nine happy days would be more than I could 
bear,” said Gualberto. 

“Why not remain in Italy? Must you 
expatriate yourself? ” 

“Yes, 1 believe I must.” 

Janet turned an inquiring look on him, 
which he answered only with his eyes; but 
she understood their speech. Tears gathered 
in her own as they paced the cloister side by 
side in silence — he pale as the marble image 
of the abbot on the wall, her radiant English 
complexion faded and wan. 

Of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these — It might have been. 

Neither by tongue nor pen would either 
give utterance to these sad words; only in 
their hearts they kept repeating themselves. 
The frate’s sad, melodious voice broke the 
silence : “ Signora Janetta, you are not of my 
way of thinking, but you understand the mo- 
tives which actuate me in this decision? ” 

“ I do not belong to your Church,” she re- 
plied, “ but I should be a narrow bigot if I did 
i37 


Stories from Italy 

not appreciate devotion to principle and self- 
sacrifice wherever I see it.” 

“ We shall never meet again in this world,” 
said Gualberto, “but I will remember you 
always in my prayers ; and you, dear friend 
— will you sometimes think of the poor, un- 
happy frate in the far West? ” 

“Si,” she murmured in a low voice, “Fra 
Gualberto, you have my deepest sympathy; 
my prayers shall follow you in your exile.” 

By a mutual impulse they stood still and 
clasped hands, their eyes speaking all the love 
their lips did not dare to utter. 

“ Addio, arnica /” 

“ Addio / ” 

His fingers still clung to hers with a linger- 
ing pressure as if he could not let them go. 
He looked up at the frescoed saints on the 
wall, some of them with the martyr’s palm, 
and thought the pangs which rent their flesh 
could not have surpassed the anguish of soul 
which he then endured as he beheld the evi- 
dence of suffering in her face — suffering which 
her womanly pride strove ineffectually to con- 
ceal. He asked himself, was it kind or manly 
to maintain silence on the subject nearest their 
hearts. Should he not give her — give him - 
13S 


The Soldier and the Monk 


self — the consolation of a few frank words to 
be remembered and treasured up in the long 
silence of future years? Love to him was 
always a sacred thing; purified and exalted 
by the sacrifice he was making of it on the 
altar of duty, he need not blush to own it in 
presence of the saints. 

“ Giannina carissima /” he said in a voice 
which thrilled her, “ why should I deny myself 
the only consolation that I may carry away 
with me — the happiness of telling you I love 
you with my whole soul? For it is a happi- 
ness ; nor can I wish, in spite of what I suffer 
at this parting, that I had never met you. I 
would not have the past week obliterated for 
worlds, for I feel ennobled by my love for you. 
My soul was sunk in a hopeless torpor of in- 
sensibility, and you have awakened it. I was 
dead, and now I am alive. I am a man again ; 
with a man’s capacity for suffering, yes, but 
also with the nerve for active work which 
will help to dissipate the pain. And for you, 
beloved friend, if I have troubled the un- 
clouded horizon of your young life — as I 
know I have — do not deem it all a mis- 
fortune.” 

“ No, oh, no ! How could I deem it other 
i39 


Stories from Italy 

than a privilege to have known a soul so 
noble, so worthy of love and honor? I — 
have nothing — to regret — ” Her trembling 
voice gave way and broke in tears. 

Gualberto did not forget that he was a 
monk, did not forget that the tombs of holy 
men were round him, and the saints looking 
down from the wail; but strong in his lofty 
purpose and the purity of his heart, he drew 
her fair head to his breast and held her in a 
close embrace for a minute, murmuring : 

“ Courage, my friend, courage ! This sepa- 
ration is not eternal.” 

She looked up with streaming eyes to the 
pale, ascetic face and firmly closed lips, which 
bespoke immutable resolution, and, ashamed 
of her weakness, said in a stifled sob : 

“ I will try to be more worthy of your 
affection.” 

He put a long farewell kiss upon her brow, 
released her, and left her alone in the cloister. 

An hour later the English family were all 
seated in the carriage outside the convent gate, 
the three ladies with their wraps and bags and 
enormous bouquets, which their host had pre- 
sented to them at the last moment, occupying 
so much of it that the painter who had the 
140 


The Soldier and the Monk 

fourth seat was pressed into a very small space. 
Captain Bevilacqua, who was to go on the box 
with the driver, remained still on foot, waiting 
to exchange a last word with his friend. 
Hearty adieux, good wishes, and cordial pres- 
sures of the hand were exchanged with the 
English party; and then Douglas drew his 
countryman aside, and taking his hand, said 
with deep feeling : “ Once again, Oreste, let 
me say that if anything should make you re- 
verse your decision, here is my address ; make 
me happy by putting my friendship to the 
test.” 

“ Thanks, Douglas, thanks. No, I shall 
never change; the struggle was short and 
sharp, but it is over.” 

“ Absolutely ? ” 

“ Absolutely. You may consider me as 
dead and buried, but do not forget me. I 
feel well assured that we shall meet again; 
and you shall not wear the bleeding head and 
frowning aspect of Pietro Martire, but meet 
me as we part now — like an affectionate 
brother.” 

Here Douglas, unable to reply, threw his 
arm round Gualberto’s neck, and choked 
down a sob that almost suffocated him. He 
141 


Stories from Italy 

cultivated the quiet, self-contained manners 
of an Englishman ; but there were moments 
when his Italian nature would break through 
all discipline. The frate was melancholy, but 
composed. 

When Bevilacqua sprang to the box and 
cried “ avanti” to the driver, he turned to- 
wards his other guests with a courteous salute, 
and remained with his hat off till the carriage 
was out of sight. He then re-entered the 
grounds of the monastery, and took a by-path 
through the wood, silent and deserted except 
for the sweet voices of the birds making merry 
in the bright May morning. When he reached 
the tiny sylvan chapel he entered, shut out the 
sunshine and the music of the birds, and 
kneeling before the altar in the dim twilight 
where he could just discern the marble head 
of the old abbot glimmering in the grotto, 
Gualberto poured out his soul in prayer. 


142 


THE LADY OF THE FORTRESS 


CHAPTER I 

Oft, oft methinks that while with thee 
I breathe, as from my heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 
A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life, 
Yea, in the very name of wife ! 

A pulse of love that ne’er can sleep ! 
A feeling that upbraids the heart 
With happiness beyond desert ! 

Coleridge. 



it 


ID you see the Lady 
of the Fortress last 
evening at the 
theatre?” asked 
young Morandi of 
a brother officer, as 
they lounged in the 
public gardens of a 


small, antique, dead-and-alive Italian town. 

“Yes; and I think she was the prettiest 
woman there. She is white as a pearl, with 
*43 


Stories from Italy 


such luxuriant dark hair, and a mouth like a 
rosebud; her smile is sweet and pensive. 
Bevilacqua is a lucky fellow.” 

“ He thinks so, I assure you,” returned the 
first speaker. “ I never saw a man so much 
in love with his own wife.” 

His comrades laughed. 

“ You know they are so lately wed,” said 
Morandi as an explanation of the phenomenon. 

“ About three months,” said Salvani, the 
third friend, who belonged to Bevilacqua's 
regiment, and knew more about him then the 
others. “They were married in England at 
the home of the bride, and then they spent 
some time at the family castello with Bevilac- 
qua’s old people. I believe they — the old 
ones — were charmed with her.” 

“She is lovely!” said Torelli, enthusiastic- 
ally. 

“ You had better moderate your admiration, 
mio caro ,” said Morandi. “ Bevilacqua gives 
me the idea of a husband that might prove 
dangerous on the slightest provocation. Every 
one is talking of the way he keeps that young 
creature shut up in the Fortezza ; when they 
are in company he watches her with the eye 
of a dragon.” 


144 


The Lady of the Fortress 

“ He is jealous, then? She does not look 
like a flirt,” said Torelli. 

“ She is not a flirt, nor is Bevilacqua jealous ; 
but he prefers playing the cavalier to his own 
wife rather than let any one else do it,” said 
Salvani. 

“ I was amused,” said Morandi, “ the other 
night, to see him fly to pick up her fan when 
two other men were near her. He was obliged 
to go away early, and Mrs. Stafford, our Amer- 
ican hostess, begged of him to leave the Signora 
for another hour or two. ‘ By all means, if she 
wishes,’ assented the captain. ‘ I can send my 
son home with her,’ said the hostess. ‘ A thou- 
sand thanks ; no, I shall come back for her.’ 

‘ But you are already tired, my dear,’ said the 
bride. ‘ And Harry would be most happy to 
escort her,’ said Mrs. Stafford. 1 Troppo buona , 
troppo buona] persisted the captain. * I will 
come back with the greatest pleasure, and thus 
have an opportunity of again saluting madame.* 
He smiled, bowed, and departed ; punctually 
at eleven o’clock he appeared with the same 
smile, and carried off his treasure to the For- 
tezza. I think that man is the making of a 
jealous tyrant. He does not even permit her 
to go to church in the early morning without 

*45 


io 


Stories from Italy 

the cameriera , though it is only two steps to 
the Duomo.” 

“ Hold on,” said Salvani, “ I have heard 
enough of this chatter of what people say who 
know nothing about it. So far from being a 
jealous tyrant Bevilacqua is the most amiable 
and estimable man of my acquaintance. I be- 
lieve the girl is as good as she is pretty, but 
she is none too good for Bevilacqua ; he is a 
splendid fellow.” 

The reader must not conclude from the idle 
gossip of these young men that Captain Bevi- 
lacqua’s fair English bride was shut up in a 
real fortress by her cruel lord. The Fortezza 
was an extensive enclosure of greensward, with 
trees and flower-plants in some parts, protected 
by a wall of twenty or thirty feet from the 
ground; from this elevation the promenade 
inside commanded a fine view of the surround- 
ing country, rich in vines, olives, and figs. 
One end of the Fortezza was given up to the 
troops as a parade-ground, and there was a 
double row of huts for their accommodation. 
At the other side of the great entrance a 
charming, shady walk led up a steep ascent to 
a delightful promenade, open to the public 
from early morning till nine o’clock in the 
146 


The Lady of the Fortress 

evening, when the sentinel closed the gate for 
the night. The wives and children of the citi- 
zens availed themselves of this privilege to a 
certain extent, for it may be remarked that 
the soldiers were remarkably sober and well- 
ordered ; but they generally preferred the more 
frequented public gardens. 

In the most remote part of the Fortezza 
there was a pretty cottage embowered in roses 
and heliotrope, with two tall, shady ilexes in 
front of the house ; and here dwelt Captain 
Douglas-Scotti Bevilacqua and his bride. The 
English girl’s romantic fancy was charmed with 
the isolation of the house and lovely view, and 
she set about adorning her abode and making 
it “ comfortable ” according to her English 
ideas. But Captain Bevilacqua would not be 
made comfortable. ' He did not seem to know 
what home comforts meant. This rugged sol- 
dier abhorred fires, carpets, and curtains, as 
enervating and unwholesome and generators 
of dust. He would not even allow an Indian 
mat on his bedroom floor. His man washed 
the polished pavement every morning, and to 
make sure that it had enough water he emptied 
the contents of his bath-tub on it before leav- 
ing the room. 


i47 


Stories from Italy 

Reserving this refuge for himself, he allowed 
his Amy to do what she liked with the rest of 
the house, and enjoyed her enjoyment of the 
pretty and elegant things she surrounded her- 
self with. The antique furniture and brocades 
she picked up in the old curiosity shops she 
made such good use of that she had a very 
pretty salon with comparatively small expense. 
She had a large alcove room for herself, and 
she hung embroidered muslin curtains across 
so as to shade the bed, and made of the other 
end a sort of boudoir. Her husband used to 
laugh a little at the pleasure she took in beau- 
tifying her house, but he liked it notwith- 
standing. And another English attribute he 
admired was the exquisite freshness and neat- 
ness of Amy’s morning toilette, to which she 
gave more attention than to her out-of-door 
dresses. 

Captain Bevilacqua, who had a Douglas 
among his maternal ancestors some centuries 
ago — hence his baptismal name — had some 
Scottish traits in him, his wife said ; he cer- 
tainly had the Scottish complexion — a very 
white skin and auburn hair. Notwithstanding 
this small admixture of northern blood which 
had trickled down to him from his remote an- 
148 


The Lady of the Fortress 

cestor, and the fact that he had cultivated 
English society considerably, and admired the 
English nation, he still remained essentially 
Italian. He had known his wife for a year be- 
fore he proposed to her, fearing a repulse, which 
would break up friendly relations between 
them ; but at length forced her to a decision 
against her will, for she would still have de- 
layed, and hesitated between him and a con- 
vent. It was during a week’s visit to an old 
monastery with some English friends that the 
young captain brought his wooing to a success- 
ful issue. It was a memorable week to him 
for still another reason, apart from the all-im- 
portant one of having won the lady of his love. 
He had found there a sad-faced monk, eating 
his heart out, who had served with him when 
they were both boys in the Garibaldian cam- 
paign in the South, and he, Bevilacqua, had 
been the cause, unwittingly, of driving him to 
take monastic vows. He was not altogether 
free from blame in the matter, and his gener- 
ous nature exaggerated his fault, and made the 
painful memory a constant self-reproach. 

One morning Captain Bevilacqua awoke 
from an unpleasant dream. His soldier ser- 
vant, who rejoiced in the classic name of 
149 


Stories from Italy 


Achille, a model of punctuality, knocked at 
his master’s door exactly at four o’clock, just 
as the dawn was brightening over the hills. 
The captain allowed himself a bare half-hour 
to dress and reach the parade ground, but he 
was never late. He rubbed his eyes and 
called out, “ Av anti /” and Achille advanced 
and laid on the table a tray with a small cup 
of black coffee and a tiny roll. In his other 
hand he carried a large copper bucket, drip- 
ping from the well, for Bevilacqua required 
the water for his bath to be drawn at the last 
moment, in order to have it fresh and cold. 

“ Buon giorno, Signor Capitano .” 

“ Buono giorno .” 

“ Mi comanda ? ” 

“ NienteP 

While Douglas-Scotti Bevilacqua made his 
hasty toilette he thought ever and anon of his 
dream. The subject of it was a gentleman in 
black, who, with a sinister look and authorita- 
tive air, wanted to separate him from his wife 
on some pretext, the nature of which was not 
quite clear to him, for Achille had awakened 
him at a critical point. He softly opened the 
door of the adjoining chamber, and drawing 
aside the mosquito curtains, looked for a mo- 
I S° 


The Lady of the Fortress 

ment at his loved one sleeping calmly, her 
dark lashes drooping on the pure white of her 
cheek, her dark chestnut hair falling over 
her frills in two thick plaits. Her pretty little 
hand with the wedding-ring rested on the 
outside of the coverlid, and he stooped and 
kissed it with a lover-like devotion, then stole 
away on tiptoe. He hastily buckled on his 
sword, snatched up his hat, and reached the 
parade ground exactly at 4.30 by a “ quick 
march.” 

“ What a heat you are in, Douglas,” said 
Amy, as her husband entered the large square 
hall, which looked like a greenhouse and felt 
delightfully cool, for she was in the act of 
watering the plants. “ Why do you walk at 
this hour and walk at such a pace?” 

“ I had a number of little things to attend 
to,” he returned ; “ because to-morrow I shall 
be otherwise engaged. Then I have been at 
the barracks for an hour delivering a lecture to 
the men.” 

“A lecture of an hour! What have the 
poor fellows been doing?” 

Bevilacqua laughed. 

« Nothing. My lecture was a historic one 
— “Italy before and after the Risorgimento” 
I5 1 


Stories from Italy 

It was meant as an entertainment ; I hope it 
was not regarded as a punishment.” 

“ Oh, that was good of you. Will you let 
me read it? ” 

“ Certainly ; it is nothing brilliant or origi- 
nal, but to those ignorant young peasants from 
the remote provinces, who have a vague idea 
of the meaning of the word Italia , this sort of 
thing is useful. The men seemed pleased, 
and applauded.” 

“ How nice ! ” said Amy. “ How are the 
invalids? ” 

“ Better. Your old veteran desired me to 
thank you for the good things you sent him. 
He is preparing a surprise for you. He is a 
skilled wood-carver, and he has made the 
prettiest little casket, and asked me if he might 
dare to offer it.” 

“Good old soul ! Tell him I want to have 
a chat with him and hear some of his ’48 
stories. Will you have a cup of tea, Doug- 
las? ” 

“ No, thank you ; it is too near dinner 
hour. I have just time to dress.” 

Bevilacqua seemed preoccupied at dinner, 
and retired immediately after to his own room, 
where Amy heard him opening and shutting 


The Lady of the Fortress 

drawers, and then banging about with a towel 
in pursuit of mosquitoes. “ How warm it is,” 
he said, opening the door leading into his 
wife’s room, with a book in his hand. 

“ No wonder you feel warm, my dear, when 
you take such violent exercise this weather,” 
replied the lady, who looked delightfully cool 
in her airy muslin drapery, seated on a lounge 
near the open window, and knitting as fast as 
her little fingers could move. 

“ I was killing those horrid creatures.” 

“ But if you would condescend to put cur- 
tains on your bed, you would not be annoyed 
at night,” replied the Signora Bevilacqua. 
“Your room looks so cold and bare.” 

“The coldness ought to be a point in its 
favor just now,” returned her husband with a 
smile, “and the bareness suits me — it is 
easier to keep things in order. The perfumed 
atmosphere of my lady’s bower seems all the 
more charming by contrast. Now I am going 
to be comfortable .” 

He took a velvet cushion, laid it on a tiger- 
skin, and seated himself at her feet with his 
arm resting on her sofa. 

“ What book have you got? ” inquired Amy, 
running her fingers through his auburn locks. 
*53 


Stories from Italy 

“Mrs. Browning.” 

“ Read something to me. You have been 
neglecting your English studies lately.” 

“ I should spoil the music of it with my 
foreign accent.” 

“Not when you understand the meaning. 
You read Macaulay’s ‘ Lays * perfectly.” 

“ Ah, they are within reach of my limited 
understanding,” he replied, smiling ; and Amy 
pulled his ear. 

“ Come, sir, you must not shirk your lesson.” 

Douglas read a couple of short poems, and 
then closed the book. 

“ Shall we go into the salon and have 
some music, dearest? You seem tired this 
evening,” said Amy. 

“ No, little one ; I want to tell you some- 
thing. I have received a rather unpleasant 
order.” 

“What is it? ” 

“ To repair to Florence on official business 
to-morrow.” 

Florence was at that time (1867) the seat 
of the Italian Government. There was a mo- 
mentary silence, during which Bevilacqua drew 
his wife’s hand to his lips. 

“ How long shall you be absent? ” 

154 


The Lady of the Fortress 

“ It is uncertain. Perhaps only a week. I 
am so sorry to leave you alone, my love, but 
there is no way out of it ; the order has come 
from high quarters, and for the rest I ought to 
feel flattered at being called. You need not 
be at all nervous. The Fortezza is cleared 
and the gate locked at nine o’clock regularly. 
I have given orders to Achille to sleep in the 
room off the kitchen with his gun loaded. A 
shot would bring a hundred men to the spot 
in five minutes.” 

“ Against whom are all these preparations 
made ? ” asked the astonished wife. 

“ Nobody, in truth — nobody. It is the 
quietest little community I ever saw. But I 
feared you might be timid in a strange town 
without me. You are sure you will not lie 
awake at night?” 

“ My dear Douglas, I am not a baby. What 
sort of women have you been accustomed 
to?” 

“ Women accustomed to be taken care of 
and petted, who are not expected to think or 
act for themselves. The convent education 
takes all the backbone out of them ; but they 
are improving — that is, they are beginning to 
be educated at home by lay teachers.” 

*55 


Stories from Italy 

“ I do not pretend that I shall not feel 
lonely,” said Amy ; “ I shall miss you dread- 
fully, but it will not be long.” 

“ As short as I can make it, my angel, rest 
assured of that. And while I am from home 
you will be careful not to go to any place alone. 
When you go down town, take Assunta with 
you, and do not pass often the caffe where the 
jeunesse doree assemble outside the door. 
When you go into society let it be under the 
chaperonage of the major and his wife. I am 
particular, because there is such gossip in a 
little town, and English ladies are more sub- 
ject to remark than others — these old- 
fashioned people think they are allowed too 
much liberty.” 

Amy laughed outright as she replied : “ You 
flatter yourself that every one is talking about 
and staring at your wife. But I have the best 
reason for knowing that I do not excite any 
extraordinary sensation, having slipped through 
life for twenty-one years without much ob- 
servation. In fact, no one ever tried seriously 
to dissuade me from the convent but you. 
However, I shall not go into society in your 
absence.” 

“ Nay, my rondinella , I do not want to make 

156 


The Lady of the Fortress 

you a prisoner in the fortress,” Bevilacqua 
said, gently patting her soft hand against his 
cheek. “ I believe there is an impression 
abroad that I am a jealous tyrant, and you a 
sort of Pia TolomeiP 

They both laughed. 

“ Now that I think of it, I believe you are 
something of a despot. Do you remember 
how you compelled me to accept you when I 
wanted not?” 

“ Ah, do I not remember all it cost me to 
move this cold little heart? Can I forget the 
torments you inflicted on me, or the joy that 
filled my soul when you came to me on the 
moonlit terrace and made that sweet confession 
which healed all my wounds? Can I forget 
the rapture of the first caress you bestowed on 
me when I knelt at your feet and you stooped 
and kissed this ugly, scarred forehead?” 

“ The scar did not make it ugly in my eyes,” 
said Amy softly, and she pressed her lips on 
her husband’s brow. Then followed a delicious 
silence which neither cared to break, as they 
looked dreamily out at the fading pink and 
lilac and golden clouds, and inhaled the per- 
fumed breeze that was wafted into the 
chamber. 


*57 


Stories from Italy 

“Amy,” said Douglas at last, “do you 
ever wonder at the apparent injustice of 
Providence? ” 

“Douglas ! ” she said reprovingly. 

“ I said apparent injustice. Doubtless 
things will be evenly balanced in the long run. 
The reflection was suggested by comparing 
my lot to that of an ill-fated friend. What 
have I done to be so blest, while he is lonely 
and unhappy — he, so much more worthy?” 

“ Perhaps he is not so unhappy as you sup- 
pose. Men’s ideas of happiness differ.” 

“ That is true ; but Oreste had a soul capa- 
ble of warm affections, and he trampled on 
them from a mistaken sense of duty. He 
turned his back on love and friendship when 
his soul was sick for both ; not as a fanatic 
monk whose conception of love is gross and 
therefore a thing to be crushed, but simply 
for his vow’s sake. He did it not in a frenzy, 
but with his eyes open to the hollow pretence 
of the monastic life, and a full sense of what 
he was losing. He felt, as every man who has 
experienced a true and pure affection must 
feel in every fibre of his being, that love is a 
holy thing, a gift of heaven and leads to heaven. 
It was within his reach, and he would not take 
J 5 8 


The Lady of the Fortress 

it — a mistake, but a sublime mistake. Noble 
soul, I cannot think of him without remorse, for 
but for me he would never have been a monk.” 

“ It was not really your fault, Douglas ; but 
I was so sorry for the poor frate ! His fate 
might well have been mine, for the monsi- 
gnore was bent on putting me into a convent. 
I thank heaven on my knees that you forced 
me to a timely decision and opened my eyes.” 

“ I was importunate because I had an inti- 
mate conviction that God had intended us for 
each other ; and since I have called you by 
the sweet and sacred name of wife , I have 
felt that the bond is an everlasting one, and 
will not be dissolved by death.” 

“Oh, if I were sure of that, my dearest, 
then death would have no terror in it,” said 
Amy. “ But the priests make the other world 
seem so awful ! ” 

“ My dear girl, do not mind all the priests 
say. We must not confound religion with 
priestcraft,” returned Douglas, and he rose 
and pressed his wife to his heart. 


*59 


CHAPTER II 


Alas ! how light a cause may move 
Dissensions between hearts that love! 

Moore. 

EXT morning Douglas 
Bevilacqua set forth 
to the capital. It 
had come to the 
secret cognizance of 
the authorities that 
the Garibaldians 
were planning an in- 
vasion of the papal territory — a plan which 
they unhappily carried out after a short time, 
when they marched with the cry of “ Rome 
or death,” and found death. 

Captain Bevilacqua in early youth had been 
an officer in the Garibaldian army, and had 
intimate relations with the most influential of 
the party; and this was the reason he was 
summoned by the Minister of War to be con- 
sulted, and if necessary used as a medium of 
negotiation in checking the violence of the 
160 



The Lady of the Fortress 

Radicals, and persuading them to leave the 
Roman question in the hands of diplomacy. 

Such a delicate mission a man has no right 
to tell even his wife ; and Amy asked no in- 
formation on the subject. She did not weep 
at the moment of parting ; and it would be 
difficult to say whether the husband was 
pleased or the reverse at her calm leave- 
taking. The women he had known best were 
of the expansive and demonstrative sort ; and 
though he admired English self-control and 
practised it, such is the inconsistency of man, 
a few tears shed on his bosom at parting would 
not have been distasteful to him. 

The young wife was prepared to lead a re- 
tired life, in accordance with her husband’s 
wishes as well as her own. But she was not 
permitted to be alone for any length of time, 
or do the pieces of work she had allotted her- 
self for the week. On the first day of Bevi- 
lacqua’s absence the officers’ wives and the 
English ladies in the town called, fearing she 
might feel lonely and triste . In the evening 
the major, to whose care the Signora Bevi- 
lacqua was especially confided, came with his 
wife to take her for a country drive, or to hear 
the band, whichever she pleased. 

161 


ii 


Stories from Italy 


Amy never appeared in public unless under 
this respectable escort; and if the younger 
officers or the sprigs of native nobility showed 
a disposition to hang round, the major treated 
them with a severity of manner which effec- 
tually repelled them. When she walked any- 
where, and could not conveniently bring 
Assunta, her only woman servant, Achille, in 
obedience to the captain’s orders, was always 
behind the footsteps of his young mistress like 
a faithful watch-dog. The old sergeant, who 
came to present the little carved wooden box 
and thank her for the good things she sent 
him when he was ill, hoped he might be of 
some use in the master’s absence, and begged 
her “ to make capital of him,” and he called 
so often to hear the captain’s “ news,” and to 
be honored by her commands, that she had to 
invent commissions to please the good man, 
who was devoted to her. 

The Lady of the Fortress was, in short, 
taken care of to an extent that made her smile, 
thinking how easily she had hitherto taken care 
of herself, for she had been an orphan for 
three years before her marriage. In her na- 
tive mountain home, in what is considered a 
wild part of the United Kingdom, she walked 
162 


The Lady of the Fortress 

freely without a servant “ behind her shoul- 
ders,” as the Italians phrase it, and the peas- 
ants touched their hats respectfully with a 
“ God save you, miss ! ” And the Tuscan 
peasants, from all she saw or knew of them, 
were sober, decent, respectful, polite. What, 
then, was the use of this ceremony? Simply, 
it was the custom, and customs are difficult to 
change in Italy. “ One sees that girls are 
more precious in this country than in mine,” 
she said. It was sweet to be a precious 
object in the eyes of her lord, but to be taken 
care of by his friends became rather irksome 
to the free-born Amy, and she longed for the 
return of her Douglas. He wrote frequent 
love-letters to his “ treasure,” and was im- 
patient to be home, but business detained him 
longer than he had expected. 

One day Amy overheard a gentleman ask- 
ing if the Signora Bevilacqua was at home, 
and a card was brought to her bearing the 
name “ Dr. De la Fleury.” She remembered 
him as one she had met occasionally in Rome, 
to be found in the salons of the old nobility 
of the clerical party, and in the society of 
the monsignori and the convertiti Inglesi (a 
numerous body) . He was a man of about forty 
163 


Stories from Italy 


years, middle height, graceful, with handsome 
regular features, keen gray eyes, slightly bald. 
He was dressed elegantly, but gravely, as be- 
came a serious man no longer young. His 
voice was low and soft, his accent the most 
perfect — that of a refined Englishman who 
had travelled much and lost every trace of 
peculiarity, so that it would be impossible to 
say where he had been educated. His man- 
ners were polished, suave ; his speech fluent, 
but at the same time deliberate. He was an 
Englishman, but did not think it was “ greatly 
to his credit,” for he held much to his French 
ancestry, and sometimes alluded to his cousin, 
the Marquis So-and-So, and his family, who 
belonged to the Legitimist party. He be- 
longed to no country and no party, he said ; 
was a cosmopolitan, superior to all prejudices ; 
patriotism he held to be a most vulgar prej- 
udice. He sometimes gave utterance to severe 
criticisms on his native land, but he led you 
to believe that they were dictated from a 
lofty sense of justice rather than unkind feeling. 
A doctor who never practised, but lived as a 
gentleman at ease, travelling much ; no one 
knew exactly from what source his income 
came, but he sometimes mentioned the rem- 
164 


The Lady of the Fortress 

nants of an estate which had belonged to his 
grandmother in the West Indies. 

This was the gentleman who now advanced 
to meet Amy Bevilacqua, and taking her hand 
congratulated her on her marriage with great 
effusion. He was the bearer of affectionate 
messages from the monsignore, famous for 
making converts, who had honored her by his 
notice. She already belonged to his fold, so 
he had not the trouble of converting her ; but 
he wanted to have the management of the 
orphan girl and her little fortune, and proposed 
giving her in marriage to a young Roman 
count of decayed substance and orthodox 
opinions. But the quiet little nunlike Amy 
had decided opinions of her own, and they 
happened to be opposed to those of the 
young count, who was one of the Neri or 
clerical party. She was an ardent admirer 
of Garibaldi, Victor Emmanuel, and United 
Italy. She told the reverend father that she 
disliked the count’s politics, but it made no 
difference, for she would not have him in any 
case, and she would not marry at all; she 
was thinking of retiring to a convent. The 
monsignore thought it was the next best thing 
she could do; how else were her heresies 

165 


Stoiies from Italy 

to be eradicated? But the sly little puss 
slipped through his fingers ; she donned the 
bridal veil instead of the nun’s, and took 
other [vows than those he desired. Re- 
membering all this, Amy was a little shy of 
Dr. De la Fleury and his set, but she re- 
ceived him kindly, as she did everybody, 
and they chatted about mutual acquaintances. 
After a little he said : “ I saw Captain Be- 
vilacqua in Florence just before I left, 
and I was surprised to meet him there at this 
season.” 

“He was called there on business. And 
you — did you not find it warm after the sum- 
mer in the Alps? ” 

“ Ah — yes — a little. But I have lived so 
much in Italy that I am quite used to heat. 
People seem to be returning to town early this 
autumn. I saw some fashionable folk at the 
Cascine on Saturday. It was there I had the 
pleasure of meeting Captain Bevilacqua. He 
was in a carriage with the beautiful Countess 
Buoninsegni and her mother. He looked very 
well and in good spirits. How do you like 
Aneis ? Dull after Rome and Florence, n'est- 
ce pas ? ” 

“I like it very well; it has many objects 
166 


The Lady of the Fortress 

of interest, and the surrounding country is 
beautiful.” 

“ Then you did not care to pay a visit to 
Florence with the captain? You would have 
met some charming people there. I suppose 
you know the Countess Buoninsegni ? ” 

“Only by name.” 

He glided deftly on to another subject, and 
conversed in an entertaining manner. He was 
a good talker and not indisposed towards dis- 
cussion. He had an unimpassionate argu- 
mentative manner, giving the idea of a lofty 
impartiality ; and he brought such an amount 
of statistics to bear upon his adversary — un- 
prepared with this kind of weapon — that he 
generally had the best of it without exciting 
any ill-will. He could show you in the most 
satisfactory manner that your preconceived 
ideas of a question were mere prejudices — 
superstitions; the authorities on whom you 
relied untrustworthy ; and that you must re- 
construct your theories on new bases. He 
understood the art of “damning with faint 
praise,” and conceding a certain amount of 
merit to the man whose reputation he stabbed, 
as with the slight prick of a poisoned dagger. 

On the present occasion he talked pleas- 
167 


Stories from Italy 

antly, but somehow his conversation left a 
bitter after-taste, Amy did not know why. He 
paid two more visits, and by some subtle means 
he had by that time insinuated some slight 
discontent into the mind of the young wife. 
He tried to find out what was Bevilacqua’s 
business to Florence, but could not learn it, 
and in the mean time he managed to suggest, 
without a word that could seem impertinent, 
that it was strange the captain had not con- 
fided more to his wife, or had not taken her 
with him-. 

Meantime Douglas Bevilacqua was on his 
way to Aneis. 

“ Dov ’ e la padrona ? ” asked the captain as 
he entered the hall and learned there was a 
visitor. 

It is never pleasant to the master of a house, 
when he returns after an absence, to find a 
stranger on his hearth ; it is particularly un- 
pleasant to an Italian, and to Bevilacqua it 
was more than usually so, for he disliked the 
stranger who sat there dressed in elegant black, 
his white hands folded on the table, as he 
talked to the lady of the house. A cloud 
passed over his bright handsome face as he 
paused on the threshold. Amy rose with a 
1 68 


The Lady of the Fortress 

little cry of joyful surprise, and gave him her 
two hands. She would have sprung to his 
neck only for the stranger ; and the chill of 
his presence made Bevilacqua’s greeting to his 
wife seem cold. He advanced and offered his 
hand civilly to Dr. De la Fleury, but that as- 
tute individual saw at a glance that he was de 
trop. He hastened to take his leave, but he 
left his shadow behind. 

“ How have you been, my Amy ? Has the 
time seemed long without me ? ” said Douglas, 
kissing her tenderly; but there was a little 
constraint of manner which the wife was quick 
to notice. 

“ 1 have been very well ; and, as I told you, 
our friends were so kind that I was not allowed 
to feel lonely or sad.” 

“How long has this man been in Aneis?” 
was the next question. 

“ Dr. De la Fleury ? About ten days.” 

“Has he been here often?” 

“This is his third visit,” she replied. 

“Why does he call so often? ” 

“ Why, I suppose because he is lonely and 
has not many friends in Aneis.” 

Bevilacqua’s tone in putting these questions 
was a little different from what Amy had been 
169 


Stories from Italy 

accustomed to hear ; and her manner of re- 
plying struck him as different from her usually 
calm, sweet bearing. 

“ What is the change?” he asked himself. 
And the wife’s secret comment was : “ He has 
been so long in grand palaces, among Floren- 
tine beauties, that his home seems mean per- 
haps, and his wife has lost some of her charm.” 

The pain that shot through these two faith- 
ful hearts at the suspicion of a change made 
them both perturbed and unhappy. 

“Amy, what is the matter? You are not 
quite yourself,” said the husband. 

“I think I might ask you that question, 
Douglas,” she replied coldly. 

“Why so?” 

“ Because you are not the same as when we 
parted. I saw the moment you entered you 
were not yourself. I suppose the life in Flor : 
ence is so gay and pleasant you are sorry to 
leave it.” 

What possessed her? She could have bit- 
ten her tongue the moment after when she 
saw the look of indignation and wounded love 
he bent on her. But her pride was roused, 
and so far from retracting she continued in 
the same strain, as if to justify the first speech. 

170 


The Lady of the Fortress 

“ At least you ought not to object to my 
seeing a visitor when you are enjoying your- 
self elsewhere.” 

Bevilacqua was almost stunned at first by 
the insinuation her words and tones seemed to 
convey. He grew red and then pale. 

“ One visitor I certainly object to, as I see 
his baleful influence has been at work in my 
absence. If that viper ever calls again, you 
must not receive him,” he said in a sufficiently 
autocratic tone. Amy looked at him in cold 
surprise. 

“ I shall not disobey you, of course ; but 
may I ask why you call Dr. De la Fleury a 
viper? ” 

“ Because he has stolen into my house in 
my absence and poisoned your mind against 
me,” replied the captain impetuously ; and 
not trusting himself to say more in his present 
state of excitement, he left the room. He 
shut himself up in his own apartment to calm 
himself and try to understand what had come 
between him and his loved wife. It was the 
gentleman in black of his dream. 


CHAPTER III 


As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 

My thoughts did ever more disdain 
A rival on my throne. 

Marquis of Montrose. 

EVIL AC QUA spent 
the hour that elapsed 
before dinner with 
his colonel, and Amy 
passed it in her own 
room weeping for the 
most part, the first 
tears that she had 
shed since her marriage. She was sorry for 
what she had said, she wished that she could 
recall the unkind words, for Douglas had 
done nothing to deserve them and they had 
wounded him deeply. Why had she acted so 
unlike herself? She could not tell, except it 
was a sort of vague suspicion, insinuated into 
her mind by Dr. De la Fleury, that he had been 
enjoying himself in Florence, and consequently 
did not make haste to return. Dinner passed 
1 72 



The Lady of the Fortress 

over with some slight conversation on com- 
monplace matters. Douglas told the news of 
Florence, Amy that of Aneis, but all the little 
incidents they had intended to relate to each 
other had lost their zest ; they talked for ap- 
pearance’s sake, that the servants should not see 
that there was anything amiss between the 
padroni . In the evening the major and his 
wife called, which helped to pass the weary 
time. 

“ I have fulfilled my trust, Bevilacqua, and 
I now surrender my fair charge,” said the 
elder officer, laughing, and the captain laughed 
also, and thanked him for his attention to his 
wife, his heart full of bitterness all the time, 
thinking how ineffectual had been the major’s 
guardianship. The wily enemy, the Church, 
was the same bestia malvagia as in Dante’s 
time, greedy of all prey, great and small, and 
she had got a footing in his home ! 

Douglas Bevilacqua went about for several 
days with a weight like lead on his heart, each 
day seeming to widen the breach between him 
and his Amy. She was quiet, calm, subdued 
in manner, but distant, making no approach 
to a reconciliation. He knew she was suffer- 
ing as well as he, and at last, feeling he could 
i73 


Stories from Italy 

bear the situation no longer, he resolved to 
bring matters to a crisis. 

Coming home from the march one morning 
he met the maid carrying away the coffee-tray 
from his wife’s room. “ E alzata la padrona? ” 
he asked, and being answered in the affirma- 
tive he knocked at the door. Amy made a 
pretty picture as she sat at the table, dressed 
in a soft, white muslin morning gown, fastened 
round the waist with a belt, and a knot of 
violet ribbons at her throat, her long brown 
hair falling in rivulets over her shoulders and 
half shading her pale little face, which she 
rested on her hand ; that beautiful hand and 
arm shone white through the opening in her 
hair, which she threw back as Douglas entered. 
The pathetic figure of a lonely little foreigner, 
far away from home and country, appealed 
to his chivalrous instincts and added, if it 
were possible to add, to the pain he already 
felt. 

“ Good morning,” she said, raising her sad 
eyes to his, and blushing a little. 

“ Good morning, Amy. I want to have a 
talk with you.” 

Amy’s heart beat violently as he shut the 
door and drew a chair near hers. “ I cannot 
I 74 


The Lady of the Fortress 

allow the present state of things to continue,” 
he said. 

“ I am ready to listen, Douglas.” 

“ I was angry the other evening, and spoke 
too warmly ; but now I wish to put the matter 
calmly before you, as it appeared to me then, 
and as it still appears to me, after some days’ 
reflection. I was returning home with my 
heart full of joyful expectations, anticipating a 
happy welcome, and thinking it a thousand 
years till I was with you. On the threshold 
of my home I behold a stranger; I find my 
wife changed, and instead of smiles and ca- 
resses with which I was wont to be greeted, I 
meet cold looks and innuendoes. To what 
am I to attribute this change, wrought in fif- 
teen days? Without doubt to the influence 
of the gentleman in question.” 

“Dr. De la Fleury never uttered a word 
derogatory to you, Douglas.” 

“Who, then, planted foul suspicion in the 
mind of an innocent, confiding girl? ” 

“ I only said you amused yourself in Flor- 
ence. That is not a crime, though I might 
be silly enough to feel piqued at it.” 

“ It was the beginning of the end, the thin 
end of the wedge inserted. And you could 
J 75 


Stories from Italy 

take that cunning intriguer into your confi- 
dence, and surrender yourself to his influence 
so soon ! Oh, Amy, Amy ! ” 

“ What do you mean? ” she exclaimed, grow- 
ing crimson to the brow, and darting such a 
lightning glance at him as he did not think her 
mild gray eyes were capable of. They looked 
almost black at that moment. 

“ Do not misunderstand me, pray,” returned 
Bevilacqua, coloring himself also, but not ill- 
pleased at having roused that flash of anger. 
“ I am not jealous in any vulgar sense. You 
know me too well to suppose I am capable of 
insulting my wife by casting a shadow of doubt 
on her loyalty to me. The influence I mean 
is a purely spiritual influence, which hundreds 
of good and pious women succumb to, to the 
destruction of their domestic peace, and that 
of their husbands who did not know how to 
resist sacerdotal pretensions.” 

“ Dr. De la Fleury is not a priest.” 

“ I am not ignorant of his profession or 
his character,” returned her husband. “He is 
a Nero of the Neri, whose trade — yes, whose 
paid office it is to sow dissension in families 
where the head of the house is not subservient 
to the clergy. He knows how to blast a repu- 
1 7 6 


The Lady of the Fortress 

tation without saying a derogatory word of any 
one. He is master of the art, for has he not 
graduated in the school of the Jesuits ? He 
wants to learn something of the intentions of 
the Government about Rome, and, as a sort 
of by-play, destroy the happiness of a Liberal, 
and for these ends he has tried to worm him- 
self into your confidence.” 

Amy did not interrupt the lecture again, 
but sat pale and silent with her hands folded 
in her lap. She was resolved not to cry in the 
presence of Douglas, for tears seemed to her 
a weak and poor defence of an untenable posi- 
tion, and she wanted to hear all he had got to 
say, but she maintained her composure with an 
effort, for her heart was contracted with pain. 

“You are not Italian, Amy,” continued her 
husband, “and you do not know what we have 
suffered by the priests. But I have seen the 
working of the system, and in the fate of the 
men I have known I can see my own fore- 
shadowed if I submitted to clerical interference 
— but I will not / To have all my inadvertent 
acts and words recorded, noted down with 
comments, and construed to my injury or that 
of my friends ; to have my wife’s confidence 
alienated, and perhaps her affections ; to have 
12 *77 


Stories from Italy 

my children taught to deceive and disobey me; 
to have to be on my guard perpetually against 
all the machinations of the enemy — this would 
be to me an insupportable life, an inferno . 
And this is the state of things in those house- 
holds where a man refuses to be subservient to 
the will of the priests, and yet has not strength 
to withstand them. But I will share with no 
man the right to be the sole guide, support, 
and comfort of my wife. I will not accept a 
divided allegiance. I have given you absolute 
devotion and confidence, and I will be con- 
tent with nothing less in return. 

“ Unfaith in ought is want of faith in all, 

Then trust me not at all, or all in all.” 


The tears were slowly gathering in Amy’s 
eyes in spite of every effort to keep them 
down. 

“ I am grieved to distress you,” said Doug- 
las, bending towards her and taking her cold 
hand in his, “ but it is better to speak out frankly 
now, and avoid future unhappiness. We are 
at the beginning of our wedded life, and have 
probably many years to pass together, and if 
we once start on a false path it would be dif- 
ficult to find the right one again. It has cost 


The Lady of the Fortress 

me much to say all this, but it would be cul- 
pable weakness if I had left it unsaid.” 

Amy remained silent for a moment, her hand 
resting passively in his; then she raised her 
head and said : “ Douglas, I know, and I knew 
all the time that I was wrong, and I beg your 
pardon for the unkind words I spoke on your 
arrival. Now go away, dear, I want to be 
alone.” 

She withdrew her hand and stood up. He 
rose also and said : “ Must I leave you? ” 

“ Yes, please go.” And she walked away 
towards the window. 

The captain hesitated a moment ; he longed 
to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears 
that he knew were ready to fall ; but he was 
too chivalrous to insist. His wife wished to 
be alone, and she had a right to her liberty. 

He went for a walk outside the Fortress 
for half an hour, and then returned and peeped 
into his wife’s window through a little open- 
ing in the persian. Her arms were crossed on 
the table and her face bent down upon them. 
He took a few turns up and down under the 
trees opposite his own door ; and finally, los- 
ing all patience, entered the house again, and 
knocked at Amy’s door. She knew his step, of 
T 79 


Stories from Italy 

course, and opened at once, and he saw by the 
look she gave him that it was all right. 

“ Sposa mia ! ” he said tenderly, drawing 
her towards him and bending his head to re- 
ceive the clasp of her white arms raised to 
his neck. 

“Have you forgiven me, Douglas?” asked 
Amy with a tearful flush. He answered by a 
warm kiss, and she hid her face on his breast 
with a little sob. For some minutes their 
hearts were too full to speak. When the 
emotion had subsided, Captain Bevilacqua 
seated himself and drew his little wife on his 
knee, stroking down her long hair softly and 
caressingly. 

“ Tell me, Amy, did you think I behaved 
like a brute this morning?” 

She smiled. “ No, you are always the cava- 
Here gentile , even when you are angry ; but I 
think you were rather severe.” 

“ I am sorry if I put the case too strongly, 
and caused you needless pain.” 

“ I think you did,” replied Amy, frankly. 
“ Believe me, I say it without the least resent- 
ment ” — and she put her arm round his neck 
— “ for I knew what you must have felt be- 
fore you could talk like that. But I think 
180 


The Lady of the Fortress 

your antipathy to the Neri led you to exag- 
gerate the danger. To me it seems impossible 
that anything could make a serious division 
between us.” 

“ My dearest,” he said, clasping her closer 
to him, “ I am only too happy to receive 
your assurance of the impossibility, and to ask 
your pardon for having been overearnest on 
the subject.” 

“ How could you think that the time would 
ever come when I could doubt the truth and 
honor of my Bayard, or live without his love ? ” 

What answer could Douglas make to these 
sweet reproaches ? He reflected that women 
like to have the last word in an argument; 
he was content his wife should have it, and he 
replied only with kisses. 

“ Piccinina mia , why did you send me away 
a while ago? ” he asked. 

“ I wanted to be alone to have a good cry.” 

“ But why alone ? Could you not cry here 
with me, and let me console you ? Ah, do not 
be reserved with me ! If you are vexed about 
anything, say so frankly, but do not retire 
within yourself and brood over it. If you 
knew what heartache it caused me the last few 
days to see your dear face so pale and sad, 
181 


Stories from Italy 

poor little foreigner in a strange land ! I have 
taken you away from all your early associa- 
tions, and you must let me take the place of 
all you have left behind, or I shall feel 
remorse.” 

“ Do not call me straniera , darling,” said 
Amy. “ I loved Italy before I ever saw you, 
and I admired you first because you had 
fought the patrie battaglie . Now I am Ital- 
ian in name as well as in sentiment; your 
country is my country; ” and she pressed her 
lips to her husband’s forehead. Douglas was 
penetrated by a sense of happiness, all the 
more consciously felt because of the gloom 
that had oppressed him the past week. It 
was a calm, deep happiness, different, but not 
inferior, to the triumphant joy of his wedding- 
day. He felt that with his loved companion 
by his side he could face all the ills of life 
with a brave heart, while without her it would 
be insupportable. 

“ Oh, my Amy, my only love, never again 
let the dark cloud of doubt come between 
our souls,” he exclaimed. 

“ Never ! never ! ” 


182 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE 


RAZIO LANDI!” 
The words were 
uttered in a tone 
of stern command 
by a tall, hand- 
some officer about 
thirty years of age, 
who looked so ac- 
customed to authority that it sat easily and 
gracefully upon him. From the ranks there 
instantly advanced a slender youth of seven- 
teen, lithe, sinewy, and well-shaped, with a 
face cut sharp and clear like a bronze medal- 
lion. He raised his hand to his hat and stood 
in an attitude of respectful attention, his dark 
eyes fixed on his captain’s face without wink- 
ing and faltering, though he knew he had 
been called out to receive a public reprimand. 
The officer looked at him a moment without 
speaking, while he bit the end of his auburn 
mustache and played with the hilt of his 
sword. 

183 




Stories from Italy 


“ Landi, I find you are on the punishment 
list twice this month, and for the same offence ; 
— how is this?” 

“ Signore, I overslept myself, and was late 
on parade.” 

“ So I understand, and you are aware that 
such a breach of discipline cannot be tolerated 
in a soldier. But now I wish to speak to you 
in your character of simple citizen, supposing 
you were at liberty to do what you liked. 
Any one who begins in youth to indulge in 
lazy, irregular habits will never succeed in any 
calling or career ; for sleeping late demoral- 
izes the whole man, and he who gives way to 
it is not ashamed to break his engagements 
and keep others awaiting his convenience. I 
will not say it is unsoldierlike, for we have 
agreed to set that consideration aside for the 
present ; but I must say that I find this want 
of punctuality extremely impolite.” 

It hurts an Italian of any rank to be ac- 
cused of bad manners. The boy’s eyes sank 
gradually under the officer’s reproving glance, 
and a slight color struggled to the surface 
of his brown cheek. Suddenly the captain 
inquired : 

“Were you out last night after retiring? ” 
184 


Noblesse Oblige 

“ No, Signore.” 

“ Were you in bed? ” 

“Si, Signore.” 

“ Did you not sleep ? What were you 
doing? ” 

Orazio, thus driven into a corner, had no 
choice but to criminate himself or tell a lie. 
He was most unwilling to criminate himself 
for more reasons than the fear of punishment. 
He had not hitherto been very scrupulous 
about telling little stories, but this was a solemn 
statement in public that was required of him, 
and there was something in the captain’s pen- 
etrating blue eyes that forbade falsehood. 
Darting a desperate, defiant glance at his com- 
mander, he made the bold confession : 

“ I was reading.” 

If the captain had been a priest, he might 
have crossed himself and exclaimed : “ Bless 
my soul ! ” As it was, he threw as much hor- 
ror as it was possible to infuse into one inno- 
cent word : “ Reading ! / ” 

The youth seemed conscious of the enor- 
mity of his offence ; he bent his head while 
the dark plumes of cocks’ feathers drooped 
sadly over one eye and partly shaded his face 
from observation. 


Stories from Italy 

After a solemn silence, during which the 
captain studied his countenance, he spoke : 

“ And the officer whose duty it was to make 
the rounds — did he not see the lights extin- 
guished ? ” 

“ Si, Signore, but when the other men were 
asleep I lit a taper I had in my pocket.” 

“Ah!” 

Another pause followed, and poor Orazio 
began to wish himself inside the prison walls 
— any place out of that. The officer spoke 
again in his deep sonorous voice : 

“ Landi, you have been guilty of a very seri- 
ous offence, and if I were to follow the usual 
course, I should send you to prison at once. 
But in doing so I should deprive the public 
service of a strong arm at a moment when the 
town has sore need of our help, and you of a 
grand opportunity of redeeming your charac- 
ter. Considering then that reading is your 
only dissipation, I pardon you this once. Let 
your future conduct show I have not been 
mistaken in you. Basta ! ” 

The boy raised his black eyes gratefully and 
was about to retire with a salute, when the 
officer said : 

“ Give me the book you were reading.” 

1 86 


Noblesse Oblige 


And Orazio produced it from his pocket. 
The captain did not look shocked. 

“ ‘ Marco Visconti.’ I have no objection to 
your reading this romance at the proper time ; ” 
and he kindly returned it to Orazio, who had 
thought he was about to lose his treasure for- 
ever ; the captain all but smiled at the eager- 
ness with which he repossessed himself of it. 

“ Now, my men,” said the officer with evi- 
dent relief at having got over an unpleasant 
duty, “ I have called you together for special 
service in assisting the unfortunates whose 
lives and property are endangered by inunda- 
tions. I have work for all, but I want a dozen 
or so for special hard service, and I should 
like them to be volunteers.” 

Orazio Landi would have darted forward, 
but remembering his extreme youth he checked 
the movement and waited for others to take 
the lead. In a moment there was a simulta- 
neous rush of four, and then he advanced too ; 
others followed, and in a few minutes the 
dozen was told twice over. The captain 
looked round with a gratified air, and the 
young volunteers felt a glow of pride, for they 
respected and admired him and were emulous 
of his good opinion. 

187 


Stories from Italy 

It had rained incessantly for two months, 
and the river, gradually swelling in volume 
and force by the rushing of the mountain tor- 
rents that emptied themselves into it, had at 
last burst its bounds and expanded itself in 
every direction, destroying and carrying away 
the goods of the poor people who lived near 
its banks, who with difficulty were able to es- 
cape with their lives, and sometimes did not 
succeed even in that. A great part of the 
town was flooded, and as the water crept 
slowly and surety up the walls of the houses, 
the inhabitants moved to the upper stories. 
In some cases families spent days and nights 
on the roofs exposed to the tempestuous 
weather, trusting to the charity of the more 
fortunate citizens and the soldiers to bring 
them food or plan a means of escape from the 
danger. Many were left homeless and desti- 
tute, and the city authorities had to give them 
shelter in public buildings, and provide for 
their immediate wants. 

Orazio Landi threw himself into the work 
with a desperate ardor, the words of his cap- 
tain ringing in his ears : “ Let your future 
conduct show I have not been mistaken in 
you.” 


1 88 


Noblesse Oblige 

He had been bred in a mountain and lake 
country ; he could swim and row, and was as 
agile as a chamois goat, — so that he was a 
valuable agent in the present emergency. In- 
deed all the soldiers gave their services with 
a whole-hearted devotion above praise, but at 
present we are only concerned with the young 
Orazio Landi. He and another youth, Piero, 
had been plying a little boat to and fro for 
hours with untiring zeal. They had come 
ashore for some rest and refreshment, and 
Orazio, who had parted from his companion, 
was crossing the bridge to go to a little church 
near the landing-place, which had become a 
rendezvous for the military in these days. He 
met people rushing about in consternation, 
trying to save the most valuable of their 
belongings, while the river bore away on its 
bosom trophies of ruined farm-yards and 
wrecked homes, and the piers that supported 
the bridge trembled with its mighty rush. 

Orazio came upon a girl crying and scream- 
ing as she held on to a basket which a rude 
boy of fourteen was trying to wrest from her. 
Our young bersagliere leaped upon him like a 
mountain cat : “ What are you doing? ” The 
boy was silent, but the girl spoke : “ My mother 
189 


Stories from Italy 

bade me wait here ; she is gone back to the 
house for the two children and other things ; 
the house is under water, and this boy wanted 
to rob me, and mother will beat me if I let 
anything be lost.” 

“ Dog ! ” cried Orazio, his eyes flashing 
fire, “is this the way you spend your time? 
Instead of helping the unfortunate you rob 
them ! I ’ll throw you into the river.” 

He dragged him towards the parapet where 
he could look down at the raging waters. 
The boy howled : “ Oh-o-o-o ! Don’t drown 
me, don’t ! ” 

“ And why should you live and consume 
food while honest folks are starving?” The 
boy replied in the vulgar patois of the north 
country, which may be rendered thus : “ I 
did n’t consume none to-day ; I ’se starvin’ 
too ! ” 

Our hot-headed hero paused; he had no 
thoughts of executing justice on the boy in 
the arbitrary and irregular manner he threat- 
ened, but he wanted to frighten him. A 
thought now struck him, which perhaps would 
not have occurred to him, had he not yester- 
day received an unexpected, and, as he freely 
admitted, an undeserved pardon. “ I ’ll tell 
190 


Noblesse Oblige 

you what, boy ; if I do not drag you to the 
police office and have you imprisoned for 
heaven knows how long, you must help me 
with my work and do whatever I bid you, 
and I will share my rations with you.” 

The boy dared not refuse, for the military 
had a certain authority which it would not be 
safe to resist. He promised willingly to be 
the faithful esquire of our young knight-errant. 
Then Orazio drew from his pocket the remains 
o'f his hastily consumed lunch, a piece of coarse 
dark bread and a slice of Bologna sausage, 
which Guido devoured eagerly. When he 
started again with his little boat, he took the 
boy with him, introduced him to his comrade, 
and taught him to handle an oar in the best 
manner. 

As they were rowing along to where the 
want was most pressing, the piteous cry of a 
horse in mortal terror reached their ears, and 
on looking round they beheld a poor animal 
whose bridle had got fastened by accident or 
design on a half-submerged olive tree, from 
which he struggled to free himself. On his 
back a little dog had taken refuge. The flood 
was gathering higher and higher, and the 
horse, with distended nostrils and protruding 
i 9 r 


Stories from Italy 

eyes, looked wildly from side to side upon the 
everwidening space of water. At the moment 
when Orazio and Piero turned the boat to res- 
cue him the cry of a woman in distress at- 
tracted them. 

“ Quelli soldati / O buoni giovani , per V 
amor del cielo /” 

The bersaglieri cast a pitying glance at the 
horse, but hastened to answer the call of the 
woman, who stood on the terrace of a low 
house with a child in her arms and another 
by her side. 

“ Help us, the water is rising fast ! I have 
brought up the bed and passed the night on 
the loggia here, and these creatures are perish- 
ing. For God’s sake ! ” 

While she was speaking Orazio had given 
his oar to Guido and was scrambling up the 
old wall, sticking his toes into impossible holes, 
till he swung himself up on the loggia. How 
was he to get the woman and children into 
the boat? He cast a rapid glance with his 
eagle eye round the loggia , and in the most 
sheltered corner under the roof he espied] the 
mattress and bed-clothes. He took a sheet, 
tied the child in one end of it, and lowered 
it into the boat, overmastered the woman’s 
192 


Noblesse Oblige 


fears, and did likewise with the baby. Then 
with more difficulty and delay, he got the wo- 
man down by tying the end of the sheet round 
her waist and the other to the railing of the 
terrace, and holding it tight so that the descent 
should be gradual. He scrambled down the 
way he had got up, and seizing the oar with 
feverish haste, cried : “ Make for the horse ! ” 

Orazio had a presence of mind and a de- 
cision of character which made him the natural 
leader of youths of his own age, and the others 
carried out his plans without questioning. The 
poor despairing brute was tossing his head 
wildly trying to break the reins, and the little 
dog which had crept upon his neck was flung 
into the water. Orazio put out his hand and 
took the little shivering creature into the boat. 
With his penknife he cut the bridle and brought 
the horse back in the wake of the boat. 

As they approached the landing-place, they 
saw Captain Bevilacqua and another young of- 
ficer leaning over the bridge watching them. 
The young men leaped into the water to drag 
the boat ashore, and then drew themselves up 
with a military salute towards the bridge. The 
officers hastened down to assist them in land- 
ing their freight. Captain Bevilacqua took the 
r 3 193 


Stories from Italy- 

child from the woman’s arms and helped her 
out of the boat while she bemoaned her fate 
and blessed the young bersaglicre who had res- 
cued her. Orazio, to conceal his embarrass- 
ment, affected to be occupied with the broken 
bridle of the horse, while the little dog barked 
his thanks and tried to lick his hand. 

“ Bravo, Landi !” said the lieutenant; “you 
have earned the eternal gratitude of a woman, 
a horse, and a dog ! ” 

“So has Piero,” returned Orazio. 

“ I think you have earned the right to use 
this horse, for your present work,” said the 
captain. 

“ Signor Capitano, may I take a basket of 
bread to a poor family in distress at this side 
of the river? ” 

“ I have other work for you just now.” 

“Pardon, Signore, but this poor family I 
promised to send succor to, and the boy Guido 
could take it, for they let down a rope to tie 
the basket to. It is not far if you will 
permit.” 

“ Be it so ! Send the boy,” returned the 
captain kindly. And the bread was produced 
and Guido despatched. As he was about to 
depart Orazio said in a whisper : “ Remember, 
194 


Noblesse Oblige 

honesty is your best chance ; but I trust your 
promise now.” 

The captain’s sharp ears overheard this 
warning, and he drew Orazio aside and said : 
“ Who is the boy, Landi — a protege of yours ? ” 

The young man blushed as if he thought 
his officer was laughing at him, and answered 
a little reproachfully : “ I am too young and 
too humble to have a protege .” 

Captain Bevilacqua was the most courteous 
of men to his subordinates. He laid his hand 
on the youth’s shoulder and bent his blue eyes 
on him with a kindly expression as he said : 

“ No, figliuoloy one is never too young or 
too humble to give a helping hand to a fellow 
mortal. Some other time you will tell me 
about the boy. Are you very tired?” 

Orazio was tired, but he would not say so ; 
as long as Captain Bevilacqua looked approv- 
ingly at him, and called him “ son ” in that 
affectionate tone, he felt equal to any task. 
This fair, aristocratic officer, with his Garibal- 
dian traditions, and his scar, and his charming 
manners, was the young peasant’s beau ideal 
of every manly grace. Bevilacqua, though still 
young, had long experience in commanding; 
he could read Landi’s soul like a book, and he 
*95 


Stories from Italy 

felt a strong interest in him as a character off 
the common. Orazio was just saying he was 
ready for any fresh work the captain was pleased 
to command when his words were cut short. 

They were standing on. the end of the 
bridge, which was at that moment rather de- 
serted, for it had been creaking and shaking. 
Suddenly it gave a great heaving motion like 
a ship borne down by a mighty sea, and then 
went crashing forward, broken in the midst, 
while the roaring river rushed through the 
breach tossing the fragments to and fro. Alas ! 
some human victims mingled with them, and 
were seen struggling desperately in the foam- 
ing waters. Orazio after the first shock looked 
round and noted with a heart-sickness that 
his noble captain had disappeared. Boats 
were put out in haste, and the soldiers, who 
were in fatigue dress, just threw off their shoes 
and with ropes round their bodies dashed in 
to save the most helpless. But notwithstand-' 
ing all these brave men could do some lives 
were lost. Orazio did gallant service, and 
after repeated efforts he leaned against a 
wall, exhausted and miserable, not heeding 
the chatter of the crowd who clustered round 
the scene of the disaster. His attention was 
196 


Noblesse Oblige 


attracted by a long wooden case, which had 
been beating against the remaining piers of 
the bridge, and now floated past him in shal- 
low water. Holding on to the box with a 
desperate grip, but uttering no cry for help, 
was a little girl, her head thrown back and her 
long hair floating on the water. It was a 
sight to move a manly generous heart to a des- 
perate deed. Orazio, cold and spent as he 
was, plunged in once more. He swam to- 
wards the child and tried to catch her by the 
clothes, but in doing so he loosed her hold of 
the box, and she drifted away from him. Fear- 
ing she should get into the angry current, he 
made a few hasty strokes and caught her by 
the arm. Then he turned towards land, but 
short as the distance was he did not feel equal 
to it ; his strength was absolutely spent beyond 
the power of will. His stiffened limbs re- 
fused to propel him forward. He felt he 
must succumb. Like a lightning flash all his 
young life rushed before his mind’s eyes, and 
he felt there never was a moment when he 
would have been so content to die as now. 
The form of the simple prayer which his heart 
breathed was something like this : “ Blessed 
Jesus, let my name be written on the roll-call 
197 


Stories from Italy 

of heaven, let Saint Peter open the gates 
to me.” 

But his hour was not yet come. When it 
does, may it find him with a heart as pure 
and fearless. 

“ My brave boy will be lost ! ” some one 
cried, and a strong hand grasped him by the 
collar and brought him ashore, while he held 
on to the little girl all the time. Orazio was 
seated on a bench outside the church door, 
wiping his face and head with a large linen 
handkerchief the priest lent him, when a benev- 
olent old gentleman who carried a bottle of 
cognac about to restore the submerged, of- 
fered him a little glass of it. Somewhat 
restored by this Orazio looked round, and saw 
with joy Captain Bevilacqua in wet garments 
bending over a little girl who rested on a 
woman’s knee. 

“ Who saved her, who saved me ? ” 

“ Captain Bevilacqua,” replied several voices. 
Orazio sprang to his feet and the blood rushed 
to his face. 

“ Signor Capitano,” he stammered. 

Bevilacqua turned to him with his sunny 
smile and extended his hand. Orazio pressed 
it with intense feeling which brought tears to 
198 


Noblesse Oblige 


his eyes and choked down the words he 
tried to speak. 

“Hush! No thanks. My dear boy, I 
would not have lost you for the world ; for I 
count on you being a credit to my company 
and — to the army in the future. Are you 
not called Horatius ? You have behaved in a 
manner worthy of your Roman namesake, and 
kept the bridge right gallantly to-day. Now 
go to your quarters directly and get to bed. 
Stay, — here is a frank for a cab, — and mind, 
no more reading by the midnight oil.” 

The captain smiled as he gave this last 
command ; and the young bersagliere drove 
home with the most delicious sense of happi- 
ness he had ever known in his life, and a 
burning desire to render some conspicuous 
service to Captain Bevilacqua. 

“ Orazio Landi ! ” 

The scene was a barrack room. The offi- 
cers and men were in full dress, and every- 
thing wore a festive air, for a distinguished gen- 
eral had come to review the troops stationed in 
that town, and the inclemency of the weather 
obliged them to hold the ceremony of dis- 
tributing medals indoors. The soldiers had 
deserved well of their country, had suffered as 
199 


Stories from Italy 


much as if they had gone through a cam- 
paign; the citizens had feted them, and the 
sovereign now sent his acknowledgments of 
their services. 

The general stood beside a little table sur- 
rounded by officers, while some ladies and 
gentlemen were seated in the background, 
and read a letter from the King, full of warm 
thanks to his heroic soldiers. He then began 
to distribute the medals. 

Orazio Landi’s turn had come, and he ad- 
vanced with burning cheeks and stood in front 
of the group of officers, looking with admiring 
awe at the grand old general whose deeds were 
already a part of the history of his country. 

“ Orazio Landi, I have heard such a satis- 
factory account of you from your superiors 
that I have great pleasure in presenting you 
with the medal and bounty which our gracious 
King sends as a mark of his royal favor. 
Avanti /” 

Orazio approached and the great man fas- 
tened the decoration on his throbbing breast, 
and put a note in his hand. Captain Bevi- 
lacqua, who looked bright, happy, and benev- 
olent as usual, laid his hand on the youth’s 
shoulder and said : 


200 


Noblesse Oblige 


" General, it may seem invidious to make 
distinctions where all have been so brave; 
but I have been an eye-witness to such de- 
voted zeal in this young man — who all but 
lost his life in the service — that I should like 
to add a little gift of my own as a mark of 
personal regard.” 

He put a note into the hand of the young 
soldier, who murmured some inaudible words 
of thanks. But he was not yet permitted to 
retire. Hearing him specially commended, 
and feeling interested in his youth and modest 
intelligent aspect, the great man looked be- 
nignly at him and thus addressed him : 

“ My son, you have begun well. Let your 
future be worthy of your past. Having won a 
good reputation you are bound to live up to 
it, — and not only that, but to try to advance 
higher, — for if we do not aim to go forward, 
we are apt to retrograde. You have heard the 
term Noblesse oblige applied to distinguished 
families who have a great name to maintain in 
honor. I think a man who has won a fair 
name for himself in his youth is not likely to 
do anything to sully that name in mature man- 
hood. Thus I may use the phrase Noblesse 
oblige in a new sense. What I mean to say is 
201 


Stories from Italy 

simply this : You have set up a noble standard 
to live by ; be true to it and you cannot fail 
to be a credit to the army and the country.” 

All the men listened with profound attention 
to this address, but Orazio was thrilled to the 
soul by such words from such a quarter. Troppo 
onore } he would have said could he have spoken, 
and he felt it to be so most sincerely. 

Many congratulations were offered to our 
young hero. Officers patted him on the back 
and said : “ Bravo, Landi ! ” His comrades 
shook hands with him, and he seemed to be 
swimming in a sea of delight. There was, 
however, a drop of bitterness infused in it. 
He overheard his particular friend expressing 
a fear that he would be so puffed up and 
pleased by so much notice that he would 
be quite spoiled. This hurt him, but it had 
not power to efface the general’s beautiful 
lesson. 

As soon as he was alone and had time to 
think, he began to congratulate himself on 
being able to relieve his parents of immediate 
difficulties ; for their little mountain farm had 
suffered from the heavy rains, and they had 
younger children than Orazio. He would 
send the King’s bounty to them. He had 


202 


Noblesse Oblige 

never known anything but poverty, and he had 
long desired to possess certain books which 
had been, up to the present, beyond his 
reach; for though this peasant-born youth 
was not a poet or romancist in embryo, he 
loved books — loved them with a modest 
and perhaps a more single-minded devotion 
than that of the young person who dreams 
of one day contributing his share to the liter- 
ature of his country. He hoped to get leave 
of absence to visit his brother at Milan, and 
he enjoyed in anticipation the delightful 
time he would have in that charming city 
in company with “his Alfonso,” to whom he 
was much attached. The captain’s hundred 
francs was expected to buy the most coveted 
volumes and cover the expenses of the 
Milan expedition. It may seem a small sum 
to the English reader ; but Orazio’s eyes were 
equal to the villanous type of the cheapest 
editions, and with a free pass on the rail- 
way and the very economical mode in which 
an Italian soldier can live, he expected it to 
suffice. 

While calculating these things he met 
Guido. Everything in the world is relative ; 
and to the street Arab the poor young sol- 
203 


Stories from Italy 


dier seemed an enviable person, in his holi- 
day dress with a medal on his breast. 

“ Have you got anything to do?” he 
asked. 

" No,” replied the boy dolefully, “ every- 
one is so poor that no one wants no ser- 
vice and won’t give a bit to nobody.” 

“I will speak to my captain about you. 
But remember he is very severe if one does 
not behave well, but he is most kind when 
we keep straight.” 

He gave him a trifle out of his slender 
purse, and made an appointment for next 
morning to present him to his chief. Orazio 
turned into a little caffi; having first bought 
a sheet of paper and an envelope he wrote 
a hasty letter to his father, enclosing the 
King’s bounty, and carried it to the post- 
office, where he got it sealed and registered. 
Then he looked at the captain’s gift and 
thought of Milan and the books. Suddenly 
an idea struck him, and he paused. 

“ Have I a right to spend this money on 
pleasure while the people I have saved from 
drowning are perishing of want? I would 
hardly deserve the good opinion my superi- 
ors have expressed of me if I did. I must 
204 


Noblesse Oblige 

try not to be less than their estimation of 
me. What said our noble general? I must 
write it all down; but I shall not forget 
Noblesse oblige l ” 

With the quick decision which belonged to 
his character, he immediately sat down in the 
sala da scrittura of the post-office and enclosed 
the captain’s gift to the Relief Committee, with 
the following note to the secretary : 

“ Most Esteemed Sir, — Permit me to offer 
to the Fund for the Inundated the enclosed ioo 
lire, the gift of my captain, as I feel the approba- 
tion of my superiors more than a sufficient re- 
ward for my service. 

“Accept, most illustrious Sir, the expression 
of my deepest respect. 

“ Your most obedient servant, 

“ Orazio Landi.” 

Our hero had now reached the highest 
point to which his ambition could aspire. We 
feel that it would be decorous to take leave 
of him while he is at the culmination of his 
glory, with his fresh laurels still green and his 
armor still unstained by one dishonoring blot. 
For what young knight, however gallantly he 
may have deported himself on a grand field 
day, can hope to carry it without a single 
205 


Stories from Italy 

smudge through the wear and tear of every- 
day life ? At the outset of his career it is par- 
ticularly hard to do so ; and Orazio quickly 
came to grief. His misadventure followed so 
close upon his triumph that we are tempted to 
relate it, though it may seem an anticlimax. 

The reader will remember that on the day 
Orazio received his medal he had overheard 
his particular friend say he feared he might be 
puffed up by too much notice. This made him 
somewhat resentful towards his comrade. Per- 
haps Orazio was a little vainglorious, and per- 
haps Giambattista was ungenerous and envious. 
However it be, two days after the distribution 
of the medals they had an angry dispute, in 
which John Baptist used very unbecoming 
language for a person bearing so reverend a 
name, and the impetuous Orazio, feeling grossly 
insulted, fell on him and pommelled him fiercely 
till two soldiers ran to the rescue. John Baptist 
told no tales, but his face bore evidence of the 
assault and battery ; the sergeant reported the 
case to the captain, and the culprit was brought 
up for judgment. Imagine what an intoler- 
able situation for a hero just decorated for 
courage and humanity by the delegate of his 
sovereign ! 


206 


Noblesse Oblige 


Captain Bevilacqua was one of the few men 
who know how to punish with a perfect grace, 
and without exciting any resentment in the 
mind of the offender. He was the most beloved 
of any officer in the regiment, though he was 
the least likely to overlook a breach of disci- 
pline. The reason was not because he was so 
kindhearted, but because he was extremely 
polite. Complete master of himself, he never 
swore at the men or used violent language. 
“ If you call a young fellow a rascal, you in- 
crease the chances of his becoming a rascal,” 
he once said to a friend. He could pass a 
sentence as severe as the offence warranted, 
but without trying to humiliate the culprit or 
crush his self-respect. The polite manner in 
which he expressed regret for being obliged to 
inflict punishment was a source of amusement 
to his brother officers. But this exquisite 
courtesy, which was both natural and culti- 
vated, was the secret of his popularity and his 
success in ruling. 

Bevilacqua had grown very fond of Orazio, 
particularly since he had saved his life, — for 
men are apt to love those they serve and pro- 
tect, — and he read in the boy’s fiery black eyes 
the most unbounded devotion to himself. 

207 


Stories from Italy 

But he did not show him any favor on that 
account. He pointed out in his usual quiet 
manner the impropriety of his conduct, ex- 
pressed regret that he should so soon have for- 
gotten the general’s lesson about being bound 
to live up to the reputation he had won, and 
sentenced him to three days’ solitary confine- 
ment. 

When Orazio heard the key grating in the 
door of his dismal abode, he was overpowered 
with a sense of bitter humiliation and abject 
misery. Better, a hundred times better, that 
he had never distinguished himself or won ap- 
plause ; for then he would not have been so 
abased ! Why had his cruel destiny drawn 
him from the modest obscurity where he could 
not have excited the jealousy of his comrade, 
— the cause of all his woe ? Here our hero 
paused and reflected. He was a generous 
youth, and he began to feel that he too was 
not free from blame at the beginning of the 
quarrel. He had manfully pleaded guilty to 
being the aggressor and made no attempt to 
extenuate the fault. This was a small crumb 
of satisfaction to him now. But alas ! he had 
disgraced himself utterly ! The officers who 
had lately praised him, would now consider 
208 


Noblesse Oblige 


him a vulgar braggart and bully. And the 
captain, — how could he support his displeas- 
ure ? When he recalled the tall upright figure 
of the officer as he returned his parting salute 
with a look of grave reproach in his eyes, 
the pain became intolerable, and he rushed up 
and down the room in a frenzy for some min- 
utes. The space from one wall to another 
was so very short that his head soon grew 
giddy turning so rapidly, and he paused and 
leaned his forehead against the high grated 
window. Two tears forced themselves from his 
eyes and stole down his cheeks. He would 
not for worlds that any one should have seen 
these evidences of weakness, and though safe 
enough from observation, he hastily removed 
them. He was so heart-sick that his usual 
good appetite failed him and he hardly tasted 
his meagre supper. Darkness fell upon him, 
but having neither candle nor book, his own 
unhappy thoughts were his only companions. 
He threw himself upon his pallet, and after 
tossing in anguish for two hours thinking there 
was nothing left worth living for, youth and 
health conquered grief, and he fell into a pro- 
found slumber. 

Orazio woke before dawn and his first recol- 
l 4 209 


Stories from Italy 

lection was a sharp pain like a knife in his 
heart. Was there no hope for him in the 
future? None. If he could try to forget his 
misery for a little while in a book; but his 
narrow apartment had no resources of any 
sort. A calm despair had taken possession 
of him, and he deliberately set about some 
violent exercises to fatigue himself, and crush 
the painful sense of being caged in a small 
room. But he soon stopped. 

“ Oh, for a book, even a dull, stupid book, 
— even an old newspaper ! Three days of 
this 1 How shall I ever bear it ! Ah ! but, 
Orazio, consider a little ; how did men bear 
a prison for years and years, and chose to do 
it rather than gain their freedom by treason 
or lying? ” He addressed himself reproach- 
fully, and receiving no answer he continued : 

“ Think on Silvio Pellico, Confalonieri, and 
Poerio, and be thankful that you live in a land 
of liberty now. Three days ! What are three 
days of imprisonment, which I have well 
deserved? It is the coming out I dread, 
finding every one changed towards me, and 
the captain — ” 

It is true what the poets say, that there is 
no greater pain than remembering happy times 
210 


Noblesse Oblige 


when we are in misery, yet we are prone to 
recall those happy moments ; and Orazio 
thought often of the day he saved so many 
lives, and the captain pressed his hand and 
called him his brave boy — his Roman Hora- 
tius; and again of that other day when the 
great general fastened the medal on his 
breast, and addressed him with words of com- 
mendation, which made his pulse beat even 
now to recall. 

At last the breakfast came, and with it a 
package. What could it be ? He tore open 
the wrapping in haste. Oh joy ! it was a par- 
cel of books ! Inside was a note in Captain 
Bevilacqua’s hand. It ran thus : 

“ Though I feel obliged to inflict a severe pun- 
ishment, I have no wish to make it needlessly 
hard. I therefore send you some books which I 
am sure you will find entertaining as well as prof- 
itable. I trust you will reflect a little on the 
importance of self-control. You are brave and’ 
generous ; learn to be patient and forbearing. 
I am still your friend, and love you well. 

“ Douglas-Scotti Bevilacqua.” 

Orazio had such a revulsion of feeling on 
reading these lines, that he bent his face upon 
his hands and wept. He could not have 


2 1 1 


Stories from Italy 

helped it had he been in the presence of the 
whole army, for his feelings were intense, and 
the message of peace was so unexpected that 
it overcame him. “ Reflect on the importance 
of self- control he repeated and made a great 
effort to conquer his emotion. He began to 
examine the books, which were for the most 
part biographical. The memoirs of a political 
prisoner in Naples written by himself looked 
thrillingly interesting, but before settling down 
to read it he glanced at the others. Massimo 
d’Azeglio’s “Ricordi” he had read once in 
haste, but was glad to see it again. This book 
was marked here and there, and on the fly-leaf 
was written in the owner’s hand the following 
lines from Tennyson : 

“ That men may rise on stepping stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things.” 

Orazio not knowing a word of English, 
learned these lines nevertheless in order to 
ask the meaning of them when he was released. 
In this volume he found a sheet of blank paper 
meant for notes ; and with characteristic im- 
patience he took a pencil from his pocket and 
wrote to his patron, sending the letter by the 
man who brought him his meals, and from 


212 


Noblesse Oblige 

whom he borrowed an envelope. It ran as 
follows : 

“ Signor Capitano mio, — 

“Pardon my boldness in addressing you from 
my prison. Chance has given me a sheet of 
paper and I cannot restrain the desire I feel to 
thank you for your great kindness in sending me 
some reading, and still more for the consolation 
your precious letter has brought me. I know 
well I have deserved no indulgence ; I am 
ashamed of myself. But I hope my honored 
captain will believe that I am at least deeply 
grateful, and that I held the loss of his esteem as 
the heaviest misfortune that could befall me. 

“ Your most obedient devoted, and affectionate 
servant, 

“ Orazio Landi.” 

Captain Bevilacqua looked up from the letter 
he was reading to his wife, who was seated near 
him in an easy chair with her baby of thirteen 
months old on her lap. 

“ Amy, you know Orazio Landi, who did such 
brave things the day the bridge fell ? ” 

“ The boy you saved ? Why of course I do. 
I saw him get a medal the other day. A fine 
handsome young fellow he is.” 

“ Well, I have sent him to prison for three 
days.” 


213 


Stories from Italy 

“ You have ? Oh, Douglas ! ” 

“ I could not help it, my dear. He com- 
mitted yesterday a violent assault on a com- 
rade, and he requires a severe lesson. I am 
sorry for the dear boy, for I am very fond of 
him, and he is devotedly attached to me ever 
since — the affair of the bridge.” 

“ Three days alone in a cell seems a hard 
sentence,” said the Signora Bevilacqua. “ He 
must be very wretched with no occupation, ac- 
customed as he is to so much active exercise.” 

"Well, I am not quite such a tyrant as I 
seem,” replied her husband. “ Read this letter, 
and see what a charming character my young 
Hotspur has, and you will not wonder that I 
am so interested in him.” 

Tears rose to the gentle lady’s eyes as she 
read the touching, simple words. She bent 
down to kiss her little son before she spoke 
again. 

“ Dear Douglas, could you not lessen the 
penalty? ” 

“ I have lessened it by writing and sending 
him books. He must bear the rest; it will 
do him good.” 

“ Poor fellow, it is hard on him to have fallen 
into disgrace so soon after winning so much 
2 T 4 


Noblesse Oblige 

honor. He looked so modest and shy when 
he came forward for the medal, and seemed 
quite overwhelmed when you spoke to the 
general about him.” 

“ Yes, he is shy, but he is proud too ; I know 
he feels the disgrace the worst part of his pun- 
ishment. Don’t fret your tender little soul 
about him, Amy. He has in him the stuff that 
real men are made of, and he will soon recover 
his position.” 

On the day on which Orazio was released 
from confinement one of the officers sent him 
with a note to Captain Bevilacqua’s house. He 
found that gentleman seated on a bench on 
the grass plot outside his door, with his son and 
heir on his knee. The little fellow was stand- 
ing upright, his two tiny feet in his father’s 
broad palm, his curly yellow head resting against 
his shoulder, as he bubbled forth a divided 
“ Pap-pa.” Orazio approached, blushing furi- 
ously, and presented the letter. Captain Bevi- 
lacqua just said “ Good- morning,” and pitying 
his embarrassment, turned his attention to his 
letter. When he had read it he looked up 
and said : 

“ What have you got there ? ” 

2iS 


Stories from Italy 

“ The books you were kind enough to lend 
me, Signore ; so many thanks,” said Orazio 
laying them down on the bench. 

“ Did you like them ? ” 

“ Extremely, particularly ‘ Settembrini’s Me- 
moirs.’ ” 

Captain Bevilacqua rose and approached 
the young soldier, who had stood at a respect- 
ful distance, and said : 

“ Landi, I was pleased with the spirit in 
which your letter was written.” 

Orazio darted a rapid glance at him and 
then bent his dark eyes on the ground, color- 
ing painfully. 

“ My dear boy, you must not be discour- 
aged ! ” said Bevilacqua, laying his hand on 
his shoulder in the old familiar way ; “ we all 
have had some troubles at your age.” 

There was something soothing in the tone 
of good comradeship conveyed in the officer’s 
“ we,” and there was magnetism in the touch 
of the strong kind hand which had snatched 
him from a watery grave. Orazio looked up. 

“ If you are not disgusted with me, Si- 
gnore — ” 

“No, I am not disgusted with you — yet,” 
replied the officer with a slight smile, “ I 
216 


Noblesse Oblige 

have sympathy for you ; for once when I was 
very young I forgot myself and gave way to 
passion, and I paid a terrible penalty for it. 
Some day I will tell you the story, and then you 
will better understand why I attach so much 
importance to self-control and am so rigorous.” 

“ Signor Capitano, I never doubted the jus- 
tice and the wisdom of your sentence.” 

“You did not doubt my affection for you, 
I hope, Orazio? ” 

The youth hesitated a moment. 

“ I feared I had forfeited it ; but your let- 
ter consoled me. I could support any hard- 
ship as long as I had your good will, Signore.” 

“ You have it always, Orazio mio. I am 
sure you will struggle against your weakness 
in the future, and we will talk no more of it.” 

The captain held out his hand with a bright 
smile. The young soldier bent over it and 
would have touched it to his lips, but Bevi- 
lacqua gently drew back his hand, saying : 

“ Orazio, no ; a soldier owes this homage 
to his King alone.” 

While this conversation was going on, the 
little Bevilacqua, out of patience at being so 
long neglected by his father, was making 
desperate lunges at the be?‘sagliere's plumes. 

217 


Stories from Italy 

When Orazio bent forward to take the cap- 
tain’s hand the mischievous urchin saw his 
opportunity ; he seized the feathers in both 
his little fat fists so vigorously that Orazio 
thought it well to slip the strap from his chin 
and let the hat go. The little Oreste looked 
round in surprise, and seeing papa laughing 
and the soldier laughing, he shook the hat 
and laughed exultantly. The baby laugh was 
inviting, and Orazio made friendly overtures, 
which were favorably received. Oreste held 
out his little arms to be taken, and when his 
father said : “Give the soldier a kiss, Oreste,” 
he obeyed. 

Meantime the Signora Bevilacqua had come 
to the door a little while before, but seeing 
her husband and Landi in earnest conversa- 
tion, she withdrew behind the shelter of a 
persian shutter, and watched the reconcilia- 
tion with great satisfaction. She was now at 
the door greatly enjoying the scene with the 
baby, and thinking what a charming picture 
her “ angeletto ” made, tossed in the arms of 
the handsome young soldier, when the captain 
turned round and espied his better half. She 
then came forward and spoke to Orazio, con- 
gratulated him on winning the medal, which, 
218 


Noblesse Oblige 

it being a fete day, he had on, and offered to 
relieve him of the child. But Oreste refused 
to leave his new friend who was making him- 
self so agreeable to him ; and the captain re- 
marked : “ He has taken a great fancy to 
Orazio.” 

Most persons feel flattered when a friend’s 
baby or dog takes a fancy to them, because 
the creatures are supposed to be guided by 
an instinct to those who are worthy. Orazio 
felt the child’s fancy was a new bond between 
him and his beloved captain, and he kissed 
the little one tenderly before placing him in 
his mother’s arms. As he was about to take 
his leave the captain presented him with the 
two volumes of “ Settembrini’s Memoirs ” as a 
“ little souvenir.” Then he asked in a whis- 
per : “ Have you seen Giambattista yet? ” 

“ Si, Signore ; the moment I was free I 
sought him and asked his pardon.” 

“ Bravo ! you have not forgotten the gene- 
ral’s watchword. Noblesse oblige / ” 


219 


THE LITTLE BERSAGLIERE 



NE day Captain Bevi- 
lacqua of the Bersa- 
glieri was going by 
a short cut through 
his neighbor’s gar- 
den to his own 
house, when he was 
met by screaming 
children flying in every direction from the 
father who pursued them, whip in hand. 
One little girl tripped and fell over a flower- 
bed, and was very nearly caught. 

Bevilacqua was tall and active, and he 
bounded lightly across the flower-plot, and 
caught the other gentleman’s uplifted arm and 
held it till the little girl had followed her 
brothers and sisters, weeping bitterly. The 
officer’s chivalry was enlisted on her behalf, 
and his sense of decorum shocked by Signor 
Castelli’s mode of correcting his offspring pro- 


220 




The Little Bersagliere 

miscuously in public. At the same time he 
felt that it was none of his business. 

“ Pardon, my friend,” he said apologetically ; 
“ what dreadful sin have the young ones been 
committing? ” 

“They have been cutting and carving a 
lemon tree, and then, to conceal the mischief, 
they overturned pot and all and broke it.” 

“ Such accidents are not uncommon,” said 
Captain Bevilacqua, smiling. 

“But that is only one of their numerous 
misdemeanors,” continued the irate father ; 
“ for weeks I have been threatening them with 
a good thrashing if they did not mend, but 
they grow more audacious every day, and almost 
set me at defiance — the young demons ! ” 

“ Oh, come, — don’t call them hard names, 
they are no worse than other children.” 

“ Oh, but they are ; look at your boy ; you 
never have to tell him twice to do anything, 
and I never hear you scold him.” 

“ No, I never scold him, or threaten him with 
any punishment I do not intend to inflict.” 

“ But do you punish him at all? ” 

“ More frequently than you punish yours,” 
replied Captain Bevilacqua. “ I know your 
way, Signor Piero ; you threaten terrible 


221 


Stories from Italy 

things, and the children know you do not 
mean it.” 

“ My dear Sir, this reproach comes very badly 
from you who have just interfered with my in- 
tention of punishing them all as they deserved.” 

Bevilacqua smiled and said : “I am sure you 
could not have really beaten the children with 
this ; but I could not bear to see you lift it 
over that little girl. A whip is for horses and 
dogs.” 

“ And how do you punish your children? ” 

“ I find a rod like this sufficient ; ” and the 
captain lifted from a heap of clippings of the 
olive trees a couple of little brambles. 

As they walked along they came upon the 
overturned lemon tree, the pot of which was 
broken, and some of the branches injured. 
Amongst the debris Captain Bevilacqua espied 
a penknife, which he picked up — and looking 
at it a slight cloud passed over his face. 

“ This is Oreste’s penknife. Has he been 
here ? ” he asked. 

“ I believe I saw him disappearing behind 
the trees at the moment I came from the house, 
but I am not sure. It was my naughty brats 
who led him into the mischief — if he has 
done any.” 


222 


The Little Bersagliere 

“It is kind of you to excuse him, Signor 
Piero ; but he must have his share of punish- 
ment if he has taken part in the mischief,” 
said Captain Bevilacqua. 

“ No, my friend, no ; you have interfered 
with me, and you must allow me this once to 
beg off Oreste. He is a perfect little gentle- 
man, and I can’t let him suffer for having been 
in bad company,” said the impartial Castelli. 

“You are too generous, Signor Piero. I 
must investigate the matter.” 

The captain examined the bark of the lemon 
tree, much scarred by recent carving, and 
among the half-obliterated letters he could dis- 
cern “ O. B.,” the initials of his firstborn and 
dearly loved son. 

In a short space after Captain Bevilacqua 
entered his wife’s little sitting-room, where she 
was working with the children around her. 
They were three in number : Oreste, the eldest, 
a boy of eight, with his father’s auburn locks 
and his mother’s dark gray eyes and long 
lashes, — a bright, clean, handsome little fellow, 
whose dress was a modest imitation of his 
father’s uniform, even to the plume of cock’s 
feathers in his hat, which he held in his hand. 
To the naturally graceful manners of an Italian 
223 


Stories from Italy 

child he added a politeness all his own, which 
was very pretty and attractive. When his 
father entered, he rose, like a little soldier in 
the presence of a superior. 

Then came Nino, a chubby dark-haired 
child of five, holding in his hand a decapi- 
tated wooden soldier and the instrument of 
his execution. 

Last came Giannina, the baby of two years, 
creeping on the carpet in a white frock and 
blue sash — who lifted her little head and 
cried “ Papa.” 

But papa did not heed her. He said : 

“ Oreste, where have you been this after- 
noon? ” 

“ In the garden, papa.” 

“ In what garden? ” 

“ Part of the time in ours and part of the 
time in Signor Castelli’s.” 

“ What were you doing in Signor Castelli’s 
garden? ” 

“ Playing with Emilia and Piero and En- 
rico and Gemma.” 

“ What were you playing ? ” 

“ Hide and seek, papa,” replied the boy, 
somewhat perturbed. 

“Anything else?” 


224 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ No.” And Oreste’s fair little face be- 
came a flame of fire. 

“ Oreste, if you have done anything wrong, 
you had better confess the truth,” said his 
father; “you know I hate lies.” 

The boy was silent. Captain Bevilacqua 
continued : 

“ I have found your initials, half destroyed, 
on Signor Castelli’s lemon tree which has 
been overturned by his naughty children. 
Who cut those letters?” 

“ I did,” said Oreste, desperately. 

“ I wish you had said so at first ; but it is 
better late than never. Go to my study.” 

Oreste knew his punishment was inevitable 
as fate, and he left the room without a word 
of excuse or entreaty. Little Nino, awe- 
struck by his father’s severe manner, stole 
away also. The Signora Bevilacqua worked 
away silently, but glanced at her husband, 
who walked slowly up and down the room. 
At last she abandoned the pretence of work, 
seeing him about to depart, and detained him 
with a “Douglas,” and a look of entreaty. 

“ Don’t be foolish, Amy ; little boys must 
be punished sometimes,” he said, but not in 
an impatient or ungentle tone, and then 
iS 225 


Stories from Italy- 

added : “ You know this is an offence I can- 
not pardon.” 

“ Yes, I know; but — you will not be hard 
on the poor child? ” 

“ My dear Amy, I am never severe with 
young people, and it is not likely I should be 
hard on my own dear boy.” 

“ No, no, of course you would not. But — 
the fact is — I don’t like him to be whipped 
at all.” 

“ Then, my dear, there is no use in discuss- 
ing the question further. Oreste has a good 
disposition, but it is possible to spoil him? ” 

“ I do not want to spoil him, Douglas ; but 
could you not try some other punishment ? ” 

“ At his age no other is efficacious,” re- 
plied her husband ; and as she made no an- 
swer he continued : “ You have never seen me 
give way to temper with the children, or cor- 
rect them without good reason.” 

“No, oh, no ! ” 

“Then cannot you trust your son unre- 
servedly to my management? Believe me, I 
know boys’ nature, for I have been a boy 
myself; I have the experience also of my 
companions.” 

“ I have never interfered in the smallest 
226 


The Little Bersagliere 

degree with your authority, Douglas. I would 
not have the children think that I was more 
tender than their father.” 

“That is very sweet of you, Amy,” said 
Captain Bevilacqua. “ I appreciate this per- 
fect loyalty. But I should like to convince 
you that I am right, and that I am acting for 
my child’s future happiness and good. Con- 
sider how much more easy it is for him to have 
his faults corrected in his early years by me 
than when he is a grown boy under the rule 
of strangers. Do not fear that the chastise- 
ment will disturb our affectionate relations. 
Boys resent injustice and caprice, but mod- 
erate and merited punishment they do not. 
Oreste is himself a proof that my system is 
good. He is a well-behaved child, obedient 
to his parents, happy and affectionate. I have 
never seen a sullen look from him. What 
would you have, Amy? You cannot expect 
him to be perfect.” 

“ Surely not,” returned the wife. “ I think 
you are right about little children, especially 
passionate and headstrong ones like Nino. 
But Oreste has a gentle soul to which you 
might appeal. He is now eight years old, and 
I think the time has come when you might 
227 


Stories from Italy 

safely try moral suasion. You know more 
about boys en masse than I do ; but no one 
knows a particular boy’s nature like his own 
mother. Men are apt to generalize too 
much.” 

When Captain Bevilacqua entered his study 
where the little culprit awaited him, he walked 
over to the table where he had laid the rod 
he carried from the garden, but he did not 
touch it. He addressed his son. 

“ Oreste, you know you have been very 
naughty; you have no more right to injure 
your neighbor’s property than you have to 
steal it. You have, however, confessed the 
truth, but not freely and frankly as I should 
have wished. Try to bear in mind that I 
consider an attempt to deceive me the worst 
offence. You are old enough now to under- 
stand the right from the wrong, and when you 
commit a fault you should come at once and 
tell me. It is cowardly to deceive ; a brave 
boy who expects to be a soldier should be 
ready to bear the punishment of his fault. 
I cannot bring you to the Villa Bentivoglio as 
I intended. You must spend the evening till 
supper time in your room.” 

When Captain Bevilacqua and his wife re- 
228 


The Little Bersagliere 

turned from the country the two little boys 
were brought in to say good-night. Oreste 
kissed his mamma’s hand and she kissed his 
cheek. Captain Bevilacqua took little Nino up 
in his arms, and when he had set him down, 
Oreste approached timidly and touched his 
lips to his father’s hand which rested on the 
arm of the chair. 

“ Good-night, papa.” 

“ Good-night.” 

He slowly followed the nurse who was lead- 
ing his little brother out of the room ; but when 
he had reached the door, Captain Bevilacqua 
called “ Oreste,” in a tone which brought him 
quickly to his father’s side. His eyes were 
full of tears and his lips were quivering. The 
captain held out both hands, drew him towards 
him and kissed him tenderly. Then the child 
threw his arms round his father’s neck and burst 
out crying. Captain Bevilacqua took his son 
on his knee, and tried, by gentle rebukes min- 
gled with caresses, to calm the tempest of woe 
that agitated his little breast. 

“ My dear boy, what is this grief for? Have 
you got into some fresh mischief this evening? 
Tell me all about it and I shall not be angry 
with you.” 


229 


Stories from Italy 

“ But — papa, I have not — done anything/’ 
came at last between the sobs. 

“ So much the better ; but what is the trouble 
then? Come, come, be good. You know a 
soldier should never cry,” said the father. 
“ Try to calm yourself, or I shall have to send 
you to bed and finish our discourse to-morrow. 
That ’s my little man.” 

Oreste was endeavoring to subdue his emo- 
tion, and the captain took out his handker- 
chief and wiped the tears off his rosy little face 
and kissed him. 

“ Now tell me, dear, what is all this about? ” 

“ I thought, papa, that you loved me no 
more. And my heart was breaking,” he added 
pathetically. 

“ Figlio lino mio carissimo ,” said the father, 
dwelling with infinite tenderness on each word, 
“ I love you always. Why should you doubt it ? ” 

“You did not speak to me this evening, 
and when we said good-night you kissed Nino 
and you did not kiss me.” 

Captain Bevilacqua’s own eyes were moist 
as he replied : “ A great boy like you should 
not compare with a child three years younger. 
But why did you not come to me and ask a 
kiss? ” 


230 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ I did not dare ; I thought you were still 
displeased.” 

The captain took his son’s chin in the hollow 
of his hand, and looked into his deep gray 
eyes ; then he held the little face up to his 
own and kissed it repeatedly. “ I have a se- 
cret to tell you, my dear. Will you promise 
not to speak of it to any one? ” 

“ Mamma is listening,” remarked Oreste. 

“ True,” said the captain with a smile ; “we 
will take tnammina into the secret. Give me 
your parole of honor — a gentleman never 
breaks such a promise as this, or else he loses 
his right to be called a gentleman. Give me 
your parole that you will never mention what 
I am going to tell you.” 

“La mia parola d* onore ,” said the little 
bersagliere , looking serious and mystified. 

“ The secret is this : I love all my children 
dearly, but you, Oreste, I love best of all.” 

“ Oh, papa, I am so glad ! ” and his face 
broke into a joyous smile. 

“ Do you love papa very much? ” asked the 
captain fondly, as he pushed back his son’s 
bright locks from his forehead. 

“ TantOy tantol' ’ said Oreste, fervently. 

“And you will understand for the future 
231 


Stories from Italy 


that my love does not depend on your conduct. 
I have never said : I will love you if you are 
good and I will not love you if you are naughty. 
Have I? No, for it would not be true. My 
feeling towards you never changes. I must 
punish you if you are naughty, but I love you 
all the same. You are always my own dear 
boy. Capisci ? ” 

“Yes, papa.” 

“ Give me another kiss now and go to bed, 
little son. God bless you.” 

He gently put him off his knee, and Oreste 
went to the silent mother who sat by the win- 
dow in the twilight. He crept into her arms 
and found a tear upon her cheek. 

“ Dear mamma, why are you sorry ? I am 
so happy.” 

“ My darling, I am happy too — most 
happy when I see you are a good boy. When 
you say your prayers to-night will you remem- 
ber to thank God for having given you such 
a good father? ” 

“ Yes, mamma.” 

Captain Bevilacqua overheard this low mur- 
mured conversation, and when the child was 
gone, he sat down on the sofa by his wife, 
and, putting his arm round her, said : “ I 
232 


The Little Bersagliere 

thank God for having given me such a wife, 
dearest. Oreste has your sweet nature ; he is 
such a winning little fellow, and I am so fond 
of him that I have to be on my guard not to 
spoil him.” 

“ Don’t be too much afraid of spoiling him, 
Douglas dear. You see what a warm-hearted 
child he is ; he needs to be petted a little,” 
said the mother. 

“ I think he is petted a great deal,” re- 
turned her husband with a smile. “ When he 
looks at me with those soft eyes — his mother’s 
eyes — I cannot help caressing him. But I 
don’t want to make him effeminate.” 

“ Oreste’s father is the reverse of effemi- 
nate ; yet he has a warm heart, and is not 
ashamed of it.” 

This speech from the dear little wife nat- 
urally provoked a kiss. 

“ And will you be content, my Amy, if your 
son grows up to resemble me? ” 

“ It is the dearest wish of my heart.” 

“ Then let me bring him up my own way, 
and have no misgiving.” 

“ Oh, I have none, I have none ! The child 
has unbounded affection for you, unbounded 
faith in you, and will be sure to model him- 
233 


Stories from Italy 

self on his father ; and what more can I ask ? 
He may be unhappy with that tender heart of 
his, but he can never prove unworthy of his 
parentage.” 

“ Your faith in me, my wife, makes me 
feel my responsibilities all the more. Are you 
going to look at the children now? Let me 
go with you.” 

At the door the parents paused, arrested 
by the childish voice of Oreste saying his 
prayers. The sweet little soul was thanking 
God for having given him such a dear good 
papa and mamma. “I will try to be good 
too,” he added, and without any further con- 
clusion leaped into bed. 

Captain Bevilacqua pressed his wife’s hand 
silently and passed on, while she entered to 
take away the light, see that the little ones 
were well covered, and give them a last kiss. 
Next day the father, hugging in his desolate 
heart the memory of that childish prayer, 
which had moved him more than he cared to 
show, bitterly regretted that he had not en- 
tered also, and taken another look at his pet 
lamb. 


234 


The Little Bersagliere 


II. 

The last person the little Bevilacquas saw 
at night was their mother, and the first person 
in the morning was their father. He used 
to enter their room humming a lively air to 
wake them, tumble them out of bed, tickle 
them, make “ paste ” with them, rolling them 
out and tossing them up amid screams of 
laughter, which roused the nurse in the adjoin- 
ing room, who came to give the children their 
bath as soon as the captain was gone. 

Captain Bevilacqua, according to his custom, 
looked into his boys’ room at an early hour 
in the morning. Nino was asleep. Oreste’s 
little bed was empty, and the father called the 
maid to inquire the reason ; receiving no reply 
he opened the door of the adjoining room 
which she occupied with the two-year-old 
child. Giannina was asleep, but the nurse 
had vanished. 

“ She has gone to early service and taken 
Oreste with her, I suppose,” said the captain, 
who remembered that she had done so before 
several times, — for it was Lent and there was 
a great display of religious fervor in the house- 
235 


Stories from Italy 

hold, — and he hastened off to his military 
duties. When he returned at 8 o’clock he 
found his wife anxiously inquiring for her 
eldest son, who had not yet appeared with his 
attendant. 

The morning wore on, but they came not. 
Bevilacqua became alarmed and went forth 
to make inquiries in every direction, which 
proved futile. Friends, neighbors, soldiers, 
policemen were employed in hunting the 
town and suburbs. By noon the parents were 
in a state of frenzied agitation, and when 
evening came they were sunk in overwhelming 
grief. 

“ If he is not found before night falls he 
is lost ! ” cried Amy, wringing her hands in 
wild despair, and 

Sobbing as if her heart would break 
With every deep-heaved sob that came. 

The two little children clung round their 
grief-stricken mother, weeping bitterly and 
trying to comfort her with innocent caresses. 
Kind friends came to console and encourage 
her in the absence of her husband, who spent 
all night out in his fruitless search ; but Amy 
would not be comforted. Her convulsive 
sobs died away in low pitiful moans which 
236 


The Little Bersagliere 

would move a heart of stone, and at last these 
ceased from pure exhaustion, and she lay still 
as a lifeless form. 

Next day the wells and all such places were 
examined, the river was dragged, and rewards 
offered to any one who could give a clue to 
the mysterious disappearance. But no tidings 
came to the distracted parents of their lost one. 
Bevilacqua, who felt life insupportable with- 
out Oreste, still tried to smother his paternal 
grief in order to encourage his wife on whom 
he lavished the most tender care, trying every 
art to convince her that her darling was safe, 
because no one could have the heart to hurt 
him, or have any interest in doing so. 

It was the second day since the disappear- 
ance, and Captain Bevilacqua sat in his study 
in conversation with two other men. His man- 
ner was calm but his face wore a look of hag- 
gard anxiety. Near him sat a young officer in 
the bersagliere uniform, with his black eyes 
full of sympathy fixed on his captain’s face, and 
opposite him a spare, middle-aged man in civil 
dress, with sharp, inquiring eyes and iron-gray 
hair. He was a detective officer wishing to be 
be thoroughly informed of the facts of the 
case. 

237 


Stories from Italy 

“What is the character of this nurse maid? 
Is she a serious or a frivolous person? ” 

“ She is both by times ; fond of company 
and admiration, and yet a church-goer, atten- 
tive to religious exercises.” 

“ I am told your son is a pretty, attractive 
child; does he speak some foreign tongue?” 

“ He speaks English well ; it is his mother’s 
tongue,” replied Bevilacqua. 

The detective officer reflected a minute. 

“Tell me, Signor Capitano, was your boy 
afraid of punishment for some offence ? ” 

“ No,” replied the father. 

“ The fear of punishment, combined with the 
suggestion of evil companions, often has in- 
duced children to run away,” continued the 
police officer in a slow, meditative tone. 

“ I am quite certain Oreste would never run 
away to escape any punishment that I inflict. 
I am not a tyrant, nor is my son a coward,” 
said Captain Bevilacqua with unusual hauteur. 

“ If you knew Captain Bevilacqua, you would 
not ask such a question,” said the young ber- 
sagliere with generous warmth. 

“ Pazienza, Signori miei ” (pardon, my dear 
Sirs), returned the detective quite unmoved. 
“ Such things have happened ; and if you had 
238 


The Little Bersagliere 

some experience in our profession, you would 
know that the unlikely and the unexpected are 
the things to look for when there is a mystery. 
We are bound to examine every detail to try 
and unravel it. I did not mean to insinuate 
that Captain Bevilacqua was a tyrannical fa- 
ther ; but children are foolish and apt to be 
led by love of adventure and evil counsellors 
to — ” 

“Impossible, impossible,” exclaimed Bevi- 
lacqua with growing impatience. He had an 
admirable temper, and prided himself on his 
self-control, but the past two days’ suffering 
without repose of mind or body had told on 
him. “ I must ask you. Signore, to dismiss this 
hypothesis in order not to waste valuable time. 
My son would never abandon his home volun- 
tarily. He is strongly attached to his 
parents.” 

“ My dear Sir, do not be angry ; I am ear- 
nestly desirous of getting to the bottom of the 
mystery which has bereft you of your child, and 
I want to know all the circumstances.” 

“ You are right,” said Bevilacqua, recovering 
his outward composure. “Ask me what you 
wish and I will answer as accurately as possi- 
ble. That my domestic affairs should be the 
239 


Stories from Italy 


subject of public comment is of little moment 
compared with the safety of my child.” 

“ Thanks. I must tell you that it is said 
you were seen or heard threatening the chil- 
dren with dire punishment, and pursuing them 
with a horse-whip through the garden, on the 
day before your eldest son disappeared. This 
is not true? ” 

“ Certainly not. I never threatened, much 
less touched my little boys with a whip. It 
is true that I punished Oreste that afternoon 
by confining him to his room, but we parted 
on the most affectionate terms the same night.” 

“ Please relate all the particulars. What 
had the child done, and who were his com- 
panions? ” 

“ Well, I was passing through my neighbor’s 
garden, and found him pursuing his children 
— he has no less than seven — and threaten- 
ing to beat them. I knew his threats were 
more terrible than his acts, but still I inter- 
fered to save them. He then showed me a 
lemon tree overturned and broken, with the 
bark cut. I found my son’s penknife lying 
on the ground, where I suppose he dropped 
it in the fright when they were all trying to 
escape after the mischief. When I got home 
240 


The Little Bersagliere 

I called Oreste and questioned him, and after 
a little hesitation he confessed to the misdeed. 
I scolded him and sent him to his room for 
the rest of the afternoon. My wife and I went 
into the country to see a friend, and when we 
returned it was the children’s bed-time, and 
they came to wish us good-night.” 

“How did your eldest son look and be- 
have?” asked the police officer. 

“ He looked as usual, only he seemed de- 
pressed, as he would naturally be, by my dis- 
pleasure. As he was leaving the room I called 
him to me and kissed him. He began to cry 
and put his arms round my neck, and when I 
coaxed him to tell me his trouble, he said he 
had feared I did not love him because I had 
kissed his little brother and not him. Then 
we had an explanation which was quite satis- 
factory, and his tears had changed into smiles 
before he quitted my knee. We parted with 
a warm embrace and I heard him say to his 
mother : ‘.I am so happy.’ ” 

“ Was that the last you saw or heard of 
your boy?” 

“ A little later I passed his chamber door 
and overheard him saying his prayers.” 

The captain paused, overcome by the 
16 241 


Stories from Italy 

recollection. The memory of that childish 
prayer was too dear and sacred to permit its 
being repeated. The father grew a shade 
paler and leant his brow upon his hand in 
silence, wrestling with the pain that was gnaw- 
ing his vitals. The iron-gray police officer 
then spoke : “ Signore, I am aware that in 
forcing your confidence I have caused fresh 
pain to your wound ; but it was necessary. I 
am entirely convinced that your son is the 
innocent victim of a vile conspiracy.” 

The captain raised his mournful eyes. 

“To what does your suspicion point? ” 

“ It is but a suspicion yet. Have you no- 
ticed any follower or lover after your nurse 
maid lately?” 

“I have not, but she might easily have 
one.” 

“ She might have eloped with a mounte- 
bank, one of those strolling players who steal 
or buy Italian children for service in England 
or America. They generally take the children 
of the very poor in the southern provinces, 
who have swarms of starving urchins, and are 
willing to part with them. But a little gentle- 
man with nice manners who speaks English 
would be a prize. Nay, my dear Sir, do not 
242 


The Little Bersagliere 

be alarmed. It is but an idea of mine, and it 
gives me more hope of recovering the child 
than any other. Will you empower me to 
offer a handsome reward and pardon to the 
maid? ” 

“ Certainly, anything you think well,’' re- 
plied Bevilacqua, who had grown white to the 
lips. 

“ I feel deeply for you ; I too am a father,” 
said the police officer, rising and offering his 
hand. 

The young Lieutenant Landi took Bevilac- 
qua’s other hand and pressed it in his own. 

“ My captain, I swear to you that I will 
dedicate my whole time and thoughts to the 
search, and I will never rest till I have found 
Oreste.” 

“ Thanks, Landi. I want to know his fate 
whatever it be. I think my poor wife cannot 
live if the suspense lasts much longer. Bring 
me back my little angel — even dead — and I 
shall bless you forever. Only let me know 
that he is out of the power of evil men to 
maltreat and corrupt.” 

“ My dear friend, I would give my life, 
which I owe you, to restore your darling to 
your arms,” exclaimed Landi with emotion ; 

243 


Stories from Italy 


and then the unhappy father’s self-restraint 
gave way; he bent his face on the young 
man’s shoulder with a stifled sob. 

“ Orazio, my heart is broken.” 

Orazio could only repeat, “ Coraggio I ” 
while tears hung heavy in his own eyes. The 
police officer, moved by the spectacle of 
paternal grief, hastened his departure. 

The brave and generous young officer, Ora- 
zio Landi, who had risen from the ranks rap- 
idly because of his uncommon abilities and 
high moral qualities, was under peculiar obli- 
gations to Captain Bevilacqua, whom he 
adored, and had “ made him his pattern to 
live or to die.” He now devoted himself to 
the search of his friend’s child with the intense 
energy of his nature. He went in pursuit of 
strolling players, frequented their haunts, 
joined every crowd of the lower orders, talked 
to everybody, questioned everybody, likely 
and unlikely, with unflagging zeal. 

Standing on the steps of a church watching 
the faces of the faithful who hurried in to hear 
a sermon from the most popular preacher of 
the season, one of the Dominican brothers 
who had come on a mission to that town dur- 
ing Lent, and who had stirred up some reli- 
244 


The Little Bersagliere 

gious fervor, — Landi allowed himself to be 
carried along with the crowd into the nave of 
the church. Never losing sight of his one 
object, he looked round at his neighbors to see 
whom he might open a conversation with. A 
monk in the Dominican costume was stand- 
ing near him, leaning against a pillar. By an 
association of ideas, Landi was struck by a 
sudden recollection of having seen a white- 
robed monk salute Oreste Bevilacqua and his 
maid one morning on his way to school. He 
looked at his neighbor sharply, but concluded 
that it was not the same. Nevertheless he 
spoke : “ Father, tell me, have you ever seen 
here at the Lent services a young woman with 
black eyes, red cheeks, and a blue scarf wound 
round her head and neck, leading a pretty, 
fair- haired boy of eight years?” 

The eagerness with which the question was 
put, and the piercing black eyes of the speaker, 
who looked as if he would tear open his heart 
to get at the secret, somewhat startled the 
monk, who scratched his shaven crown, and re- 
flected a minute before he replied cautiously : 

“ I may have — but there are so many wo- 
men and children ! ” 

“ Try to recall this particular one, padre,” 
245 


Stories from Italy 

said the bersagliere , imperiously. “ It will be 
for your interest to do so.” 

“ Did the young woman come here for 
confession? ” 

“ Most probably. You may have it in your 
power to render an invaluable service to a man 
who knows how to be grateful.” 

The monk shrugged his shoulders. “For us 
religiosi that is nothing — personally we have 
no worldly interests — so rewards cannot tempt 
us. But the community is poor since the sup- 
pression, and our means of doing good limited.” 

“ Yes, of course, I understand,” replied the 
bersagliere in a courteous tone ; and he briefly 
related the circumstances. The monk prom- 
ised to make inquiries, and appointed to meet 
him next day in the church. But like many 
another delusive hope, nothing came of it. 
The Dominican had found no information, and 
Landi, sad and disappointed, still lingering in 
the church, was arrested by the mellow, melan- 
choly voice of the preacher, who was a strik- 
ing contrast to the fiery, passionate orator of 
the preceding day, who exhausted himself with 
fierce denunciations and violent action. This 
one was about forty years of age, middle height, 
of meagre person, with the face of an ideal 
246 


The Little Bersagliere 

anchorite, colorless as a statue of antique mar- 
ble, illuminated by beautiful, dark eyes set in 
caverns ; his hands were small and delicate ; 
his delivery quietly earnest. His manner and 
his words had a charm which enchained Ora- 
zio Landi to the end of the discourse. Before 
it was concluded he had made up his mind 
to speak to the preacher, and with his usual 
promptness in carrying out a resolution, he 
watched the side door by which the monk would 
issue forth from the sacresty, and accosted him 
with a respectful address : “ Padre, may I so- 
licit a private interview of a few minutes ? ” 

“ I am very weary just now, my son,” re- 
turned the monk in his sweet voice, which 
seemed full of pathos to Landi’s ear, “ but if 
you will return at six o’clock I shall meet you 
at the church door.” 

“ Mille grazie , padre" said the bersagliere , 
and went his way with the quick firm step of 
youth, and health, and energy. 

The weary monk leaned against the pillar 
of the door and looked after him with a cer- 
tain interest. He believed that his sermon 
had touched the young soldier, and that he 
was coming to him for some spiritual advice. 

With military punctuality Landi presented 
247 


Stories from Italy 


himself at the hour named and was met by 
the frate, who motioned him to enter. The 
bersagliere , removing his hat and bowing, stood 
aside for the other to lead the way. He was 
not fond of the fraternity as a body, but this 
frate commanded respect. He approached a 
confession box, but the officer stopped and said : 
" Excuse me, padre, my communication is not 
personal nor in the nature of a confession. 
Permit me to speak where I stand.” 

Much surprised, the frate looked at him in- 
quiringly, and said : “Speak, son.” He seated 
himself on a bench and motioned Landi to do 
the same. 

“ Padre,” began Orazio, “ I would fain en- 
list your aid for a friend in great trouble. He 
is the best and truest friend ever man had ; he 
has been like a father and a brother in one ; 
he once saved my life at the risk of his own, 
and I would give all I ever saw to make him 
happy. This dear friend has been robbed of 
his beloved son, the apple of his eye, the heart 
of his heart. If it had been the will of God 
to take him by a natural death, the brave, manly 
soul would have submitted himself to the di- 
vine decree. But he has been stolen away, 
and we know not what horrid life is in store 
248 


The Little Bersagliere 

for the dear child. I am here, padre, to ask 
your help in unravelling the mystery.” 

“ My help ? ” said the monk in surprise, fix- 
ing his bright, deep-sunk eyes on the speaker. 
“ How can I help you, my son? ” 

“ By means of the confessional for instance,” 
suggested Landi, boldly. 

“The ordinance which you have just re- 
jected is hardly likely to be called in requisi- 
tion by the person or persons who have just 
committed the crime you describe.” 

“ Nevertheless — there are means — you 
wield a certain power, — and I believe that 
some of the missionary fathers here were ac- 
quainted with my friend’s nurse who disap- 
peared with the boy.” 

“ What is your friend’s name ? ” 

“ Bevilacqua, captain in the Bersaglieri." 

The frate passed his delicate hand over his 
eyes, as if in thought. 

“Is your friend’s wife alive?” 

“ Yes, thank God ; but the poor soul is 
broken-hearted for her Oreste.” 

“ Oreste ? That is the child’s name,” he 
said musingly. Then he roused himself as if 
from a reverie and asked some further infor- 
mation. When he had heard all he said ; 


249 


Stories from Italy 

“ Figliuolo, I will do what I can for you. 
Return at this hour to-morrow. A rivederlaF 

He waved his hand in token of adieu but 
not of benediction. Landi bowed respect- 
fully and turned to go, but the frate detained 
him. 

“ May I ask what decided you to apply to 
me in this case ? ” 

The young man raised his black eyes and 
fixed them on the monk as he replied with a 
frank simplicity : 

“ Your face, padre.” 

The ghost of a pleased smile flitted over 
the monk’s statuesque countenance. 

“And yours has enlisted my sympathy; 
Captain Bevilacqua is fortunate in having such 
a friend.” 

“ The good fortune is all mine, I assure 
you,” replied the young man with sincere 
modesty, and the frate smiled again his slight 
evanescent smile. 

“ Come to our monastery at 5 o’clock to- 
morrow evening. If I am not waiting at the 
door to meet you, inquire for Fra Gualberto.” 

“Another appointment with a frate,” said 
the young officer as he hastened out of the 
250 


The Little Bersagliere 

church. “ I wonder what this will bring 
forth ! What a superb head he has, and 
what an interesting face ! There is a sad 
history traced in those deep lines and hollow 
eyes.” 

Needless to say our bersagliere was at the 
door of the monastery chapel as the clock 
struck five, and while he was asking the porter 
for Fra Gualberto, that gentleman appeared, 
and conducted him by a narrow passage from 
the chapel to a small private apartment. 

“ I have made inquiries, without an hour’s 
delay about your friend’s child, and I have 
succeeded in tracing him.” 

“ Grazie a Dio ! ” 

“ I may as well tell you at once,” pursued 
the monk slowly, “ that a fanatical brother, 
half-demented I consider him, took a violent 
fancy to the boy, and urged the maid by every 
argument to surrender him to him that he 
might dedicate him to the Church. Intense 
animosity to the military probably made the 
idea of robbing an officer’s child more attract- 
ive, and he promised the nurse rewards and 
indulgences if she would listen to his proposal. 
She finally consented, and he caused them 
both to be instantly conveyed to a small vil- 
25 1 


Stories from Italy 


lage in the mountains. The child was placed 
in a community of the Order, and the girl was 
received as a lay sister in a nunnery not far 
distant.” 

“ Where is Oreste Bevilacqua — for God’s 
sake? ” 

“ Pazienza, figliuolo ,” returned the frate 
calmly, “ he has received no harm whatever, 
and shall be immediately ceded to his par- 
ents. But I have a favor to ask.” 

“ Ask anything — only give me the boy,” 
said Orazio, impatiently. 

“ Pardon for the unhappy maiden who was 
led into error by the crazy brother.” 

“ Yes, yes ! Let them both go to the 
devil if it so please them. Let me start at 
once to fetch Oreste. What is the road to 
this infernal retreat ? ” 

“ Wait a moment and I will bring you the 
directions.” 

He quitted the room and returned leading 
a little boy, who ran to the side of the ber- 
sagliere. Landi caught him in his arms and 
hugged him frantically. 

“ I dandled him when he was a baby in 
arms,” he said to the frate ; “ he is my nephew 
by adoption ; non e vero , Oresiino ? ” 

252 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ Take me home — take me home,” cried 
the child. 

“ That I will, my dear. Padre, forgive me if I 
have said anything uncivil in my excitement. 
God will bless you for this good act. Farewell.” 

“ Farewell, my son,” said the monk, extend- 
ing his hand, which the bersagliere grasped 
warmly. 

“ Addio , caro ,” said the frate to Oreste ; and 
that little gentleman, with the politeness which 
characterized him always, kissed his hand and 
replied : “ A rivederla , padre” 

“ Give this letter to Captain Bevilacqua, 
please,” said Fra Gualberto to Orazio, who 
thrust the missive into his pocket, seized 
Oreste's hand, and hurried away in a state of 
frenzied exultation. 

Captain Bevilacqua was seated in his study 
writing a letter, looking pale and worn, his 
brow contracted with care, when a gentle 
knock came to the door ; and hardly waiting 
for permission to enter, Orazio Landi walked 
up to him, and laying his two hands on his 
shoulders affectionately, said : “ Dear Bevi- 
lacqua, I have good news ! ” 

The captain started and looked up at the 
radiant face of the young man. 

253 


Stories from Italy 

" He is found — he is safe ! He shall be 
with you soon.” 

And without a moment’s pause he hastened 
out of the room and returned in a few minutes 
with Oreste, who leaped to his father’s out- 
stretched arms with a cry of joy. 

There was a long, silent embrace with cheek 
pressed to cheek; then Captain Bevilacqua 
put his son standing on a chair and held him 
at arm’s length, scanning his face anxiously. 

“ Are you quite well, cuor mio ? ” 

“ Quite well, papa ! Oh, papa ! ” And 
Oreste threw himself upon his father’s neck 
once more. 

“Where is mamma? Let me go to 
mamma 1 ” 

“ Wait a moment, carissimo. Mamma has 
not been well. She grieved so for you that it 
made her ill. She is reposing now, and we 
must not startle her. I will see if she is 
awake.” 

Amy was lying on her bed in a dressing- 
gown, her pretty little face as white as the pil- 
low on which it lay. Bevilacqua bent softly 
over her and she opened her eyes. 

“ My Amy, I have glad news for you,” and 
he kissed her. 


254 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ I know it — I have had a happy dream 
just now. Oreste?” 

“ He is found, yes ! do not agitate yourself 
my love ; lie still, and I will fetch him.” 

Amy was sitting on the side of her bed 
trembling all over when Douglas returned with 
her treasure. As she clasped him to her bosom 
she dissolved in tears ; and her husband, glad 
to see that her feelings had found this relief, 
left her alone with her darling. 

He returned to Landi, who was walking up 
and down in the study. 

“ My dear Orazio, have I forgotten to give 
you one word of thanks ? What a selfish, un- 
grateful brute I must seem ! ” and he seized 
his friend’s hands and pressed them warmly. 
“ Forgive me.” 

“ Between you and me, Bevilacqua, thanks 
are superfluous. I owe you more — a thou- 
sand times more — than I can ever repay.” 

“ Che che / don’t talk nonsense, boy ! ” was 
the unsentimental rejoinder ; but the captain’s 
eyes were full of gratitude and affection. “ Tell 
me how and where you have found Oreste.” 

The young man briefly related all he knew, 
which was not much ; and added : “ I believe 
the frate would like to throw a veil upon the 
255 


Stories from Italy 

whole transaction. Here is a letter for 
you.” 

Bevilacqua glanced over the contents, and 
then read it carefully a second time. It ran 
as follows : 

“To Captain D. S. Bevilacqua, — Amico, 
when we two parted nine years ago at the convent 
gate, your last words were : ‘ Make me happy by 
putting my friendship to the test.’ I now claim 
from my old brother-in-arms a fulfilment of the 
pledge thus implied. I have procured for you 
the restoration of your son, and in return I ask 
that you will not prosecute the miserable woman 
who betrayed her trust, or make a public scandal 
to the disedification of the people and the injury 
to faith, by exposing a fanatical monk who has 
a perverted notion of duty. For my sake, do not 
bring fresh dishonor on the cloth which I have 
striven— Heaven knows with what hindrances ! 
— to wear worthily. 

“ I have talked with your charming little boy, 
and was deeply touched by the tender remem- 
brance of me which his name implies. I pray 
God to bless him and make him a joy to his par- 
ents. Present my affectionate salutations to the 
Signora Amy and receive the embrace of 

“Your friend and brother in Christ, 

“ Gualberto. 

“ I know you will behave like your generous 
self — like Douglas Bevilacqua.” 

256 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ Povero frate! ” murmured Bevilacqua with 
a deep sigh, and after a moment’s pause said : 
“ Orazio, do you remember my telling you seven 
years ago the story of this scar on my fore- 
head? ” 

“ I well remember it, captain. I had got 
into disgrace by thrashing a comrade — I was 
a young savage then — and you sent me to the 
lock-up for three days, but softened the bitter- 
ness of my prison by sending me books and a 
letter — a kind letter; I have it still.” 

“ Foolish boy,” said the captain, smiling. 

“ When I was released you treated me with 
great consideration, and related to me the story 
of your early misfortune — as if to justify the 
severity of my punishment — which needed no 
justification. It was an act of exquisite cour- 
tesy, and would have won my heart if it had 
not already been yours. You were a perfect 
hero in my eyes at that time.” 

“You know me better now,” laughed the 
captain ; and Landi replied only with a laugh. 

“ Why do you recall that time ? ” he asked. 

“Because this pale-faced frate who has in- 
terposed to restore my Orestino, this Fra 
Gualberto, is the hero of my story. It was 
his hand which inflicted this wound. He 


17 


257 


Stories from Italy 

believed he had killed me, — and indeed I 
was at death’s door for weeks. Remorse 
drove him into a monastery; and you see if 
he has injured me I have injured him more. 
Mutual injuries freely pardoned made a bond 
of friendship between us. Poor frate, whose 
happiness has been blasted by me, — can I 
refuse him the small request of sparing his 
Order a new disgrace ? Eh, Orazio, what say 
you?” 

“ No, no ; in fact I have promised for you, 
my dear captain, that the wicked monk and 
maid might both go to the devil if they 
pleased.” 

“That was most kind, Orazio mio ,” re- 
turned Bevilacqua. “And what said the 
frate?” 

“ His delicate lip curled with a slight smile 
full of latent humor. All human nature has 
not been extinguished in him. What a noble 
face he has, and what a pity he is a 
frate ! ” 

“ Ah, if you knew what a man he is, you 
would think so. You can read his letter 
while I reply to it.” 

The captain sat down at his desk and 
wrote : 

258 


The Little Bersagliere 

“ Carissimo Oreste, — When a friend comes 
with a priceless gift in his hand, he should be a 
graceless churl who could refuse a small favor 
in return. I thank you from the depth of my 
heart for the powerful aid you have lent in re- 
covering my son; and I abandon the wretched 
frate who has caused me and my wife such in- 
sufferable anguish to be dealt with by the eccle- 
siastical authorities. 

“Say where it would be most agreeable to 
meet me ; I should prefer to receive you under 
my own roof. 

“Yours with unalterable affection, 

“ Douglas Scotti Bevilacqua.” 

Captain Bevilacqua was standing at his 
garden gate the following evening, having just 
returned from town, when he saw approach- 
ing a spare graceful figure in the black and 
white robes of a Dominican brother. In a 
moment he strode out and stood in his path : 
“ Amico mio ! ” 

“ Carissimo Douglas ! ” 

Two passers by stood still to look at the 
novel sight of a bersagliere and a frate em- 
bracing with effusion. With hands still clasped 
like long-parted brothers they entered the 
house together. Amy received the guest with 
a charming sweetness, in which affection and 
259 


Stories from Italy 


gratitude were mingled with the deep respect 
which the austere frate had inspired in her 
girlish days. The children were sent for and 
presented, and Gualberto patted the heads of 
the little boys, and took baby on his knee. 
“What is thy name, my little cherub?” 

“ Giannina,” lisped the little one, fingering 
his cross. 

Gualberto looked up at the Signora Amy. 

“ You remember your friends in your chil- 
dren’s names,” he said. “ It is a pleasant 
custom. Is the Signora Giannetta dead or 
married? ” 

" Neither. She is well and happy, and 
hard at work amongst the poor. She was 
with us on a visit when Giannina was born, 
and so we gave the child her name.” 

“ It is well,” replied the frate serenely. “ I 
am glad to hear that she is happy and 
busy.” 

No more was said on that subject; for 
though the frate had never confided his un- 
happy love to his friends, they both knew it, 
and instinctively avoided talking of the lady 
who had inspired it. They chatted freely, how- 
ever, and the frate who felt his heart warmed — 
cuore riscaldato , as he expressed it — at the 
260 


The Little Bersagliere 

genial fireside of his friend, indulged in a 
little gentle mirth. We use the word fireside as 
a figure of speech, for in Italy the fireside as a 
poetic rallying point of the family has no place. 
Men love their homes, but they do not speak 
of the sacredness of the domestic hearth , or of 
defending their hearths from invasion. 

Presently the door was darkened by an- 
other bersagliere uniform, and Landi entered, 
and was taken into the family circle as a part 
of it. It was the children’s bedtime, and 
Gualberto, who had held the fair- haired 
Giannina on his knee all the time, she being 
entertained by the novelty of his dress and 
conversation, kissed and blessed them all as 
they retired. 

Presently he rose and said : “ My hour is 
come also. I go hence to-morrow, but the 
memory of this happy evening I shall carry 
away with me and it will remain with me for 
life.” 

“But why must you go, Oreste? Nay, I 
will call you Fra Gualberto if you wish, and 
learn to speak with respect of the Order, only 
stay near us, and our house shall be your 
home when you will and as long as you will. 

I should love to see my little ones climbing 
261 


Stories from Italy 

your knee and calling you ‘ Uncle.’ Stay with 
us, my brother.” 

Gualberto pressed his friend’s hand. 

“ I knew you felt thus, but it is sweet to 
hear you pronounce the words. Do you re- 
member, Douglas, when we parted with ach- 
ing hearts at the convent gate nine years ago ? 
I told you to consider me dead and buried, 
but I begged you not to forget me. Well, I 
am a ghost just come this once to remind you 
that departed spirits can still love their friends, 
and I am bound to disappear when the clock 
strikes nine. Amy, my dear child, adieu; 
Landi, give me that honest hand of yours, and 
promise me not to hate all monks without a 
cause ; Douglas, will you give this book to my 
little namesake, as a souvenir of the ‘ zio ’ ? 
Farewell, my brother ! God keep you all till 
we meet again ! ” 

He embraced Bevilacqua on the threshold, 
and vanished into the starry night like the 
shadowy ghost he represented himself, and 
was seen no more. 


262 





OTHER STORIES 





THE DUEL 


CHAPTER I 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness. 

Cowper. 

do not hate tourists, 
but for one who 
spends the most of 
the year in cities 
like Rome and Flor- 
ence, it is desirable 
to get away from 
society for the sum- 
mer holidays, and live alone with books and 
nature, among unsophisticated peasants. 

I once found a glorious spot, absolutely 
cut off from the world, there being no road to 
it, the traveller having to ascend the moun- 
tain by a break-neck path on horseback. It 
was perfectly primitive, the people wild and 
shy, very poor, but not begging at all. It is 
true there was hardly anything to eat except 
dark, sour bread and wine. I had prudently 
provided myself with coffee ; could I have 
265 




Stories from Italy- 

some milk? Yes, but the cows had not come 
home yet. At what hour did they return? 
It was uncertain ; whenever they felt dis- 
posed. When I asked for a candle the girl 
brought me a taper about a yard long, which 
she put into my hand as if I were going to 
walk in a religious procession, and which she 
had sacrilegiously taken from the church. 

“Here is an undiscovered country,” I said, 
and began to think how I was to make the 
rooms habitable. I suddenly remembered 
having seen a square, ugly, tasteless house 
inside a large enclosure with a gate, and I 
asked the young woman who was the owner. 
She named him, adding : “ That is the new 
hotel.” 

“What ! ” I exclaimed. “ An hotel, when 
you have no road even for oxen ! ” 

“ Oh,” said the pretty creature, rippling all 
over with smiles at the joyous intelligence, 
“ they are just beginning to make a road on 
the other side of the mountain 1 ” 

I ruefully packed my valise and departed 
next morning. Then I began a series of ex- 
cursions, travelling exclusively by diligence. 
In these conveyances I never met a man or 
woman of my race, and, needless to say, none 
266 


The Duel 


of the upper class Italians, who use their own 
carriages going to and fro between the city 
and their villas. I had thus a good oppor- 
tunity of improving my acquaintance with the 
people. And I like the popolo Toscano ; they 
are courteous, intelligent, honest ; and if they 
only could be persuaded to use a little more 
soap and water they would be “ the finest 
peasantry in the world.” 

The diligences were cheap and uncomfort- 
able ; the cheapness, it must be confessed, 
did not come amiss to a poor young author 
fond of rambling ; and for the rest one learns 
to “ adapt himself” to circumstances, as the 
Italians express it. There was a seat outside, 
just behind the driver, which held three per- 
sons, and when this was fully occupied it 
closed up the best ventilation we had. My 
heart used to sink when I beheld a pair of 
dirty red-brown shoes mounting, and found 
my favorite window darkened by the capa- 
cious back of a farmer, butcher, baker, or 
blacksmith, as the case might be. 

One day, looking out through a side-win- 
dow, I saw a well-made, gentlemanly figure in 
a perfectly-fitting suit of summer gray spring 
lightly to the front seat, showing a small aris- 
267 


Stories from Italy 

tocratic boot with an arched instep. The 
young man had his back to my favorite win- 
dow, but being slight, he did not close it up, 
and when he saw me looking out he politely 
moved to one side. He wore gloves, too ; a 
rather unusual thing in the diligence, for when 
an exceptionally fastidious person appeared 
with gloves, he or she soon removed them, 
seeing that they were not the mode and out 
of place. 

After a stage or two the gentleman pre- 
sented himself at the door, and said : “ The 
sun is so hot that I should like to come inside 
if it will not inconvenience these gentlemen.” 

“ Venga , venga was the general answer, 
and all made room with that ready courtesy 
which seldom fails in a Tuscan assembly of 
any class. The young man got to the upper 
end of the coach, opposite to me, and next a 
priest. They saluted each other by name, 
and shook hands. 

“ Padre Morelli ! ” 

“ Signor Giulio Cesare ! You are going to 
your castello for a little fresh air? ” returned 
the priest. 

“ Yes ; and to look after the contadini. 
And you ? ” 


268 


The Duel 


“ I go precisely in the same direction, to 
the fete of San Severino. The Curato is a 
friend of mine, and has invited me to assist at 
the functions. This weather one is glad to 
escape from the town for a few days. San 
Severino is cool and pleasant.” 

“ How high above sea level is San Seve- 
rino ? ” I asked. 

“ I do not exactly know. I am not curi- 
ous ! ” replied the priest. But the young man 
who rejoiced in the name of Giulio Cesare told 
me. 

“ I am not actuated by idle curiosity,” I 
replied. “ I am in search of a cool, tranquil 
spot, where I can spend two or three months 
of summer.” 

“You would be tired of San Severino in 
two days,” observed the young man. “ There 
is no object of interest. The church is quite 
ordinary, unadorned by works of art of any 
merit. It is a poor village commune of about 
one thousand souls. The only recommenda- 
tion is the fine air and the pleasing landscape.” 

“ Is there any sort of hotel where one could 
be accommodated? ” 

“ Che, che /” 

“ I am not difficult. I can adapt myself.” 

269 


Stories /from Italy 

“Well, I believe there is a spare room at 
the cafe, though I never heard of any one 
occupying it.” 

“ And where do travellers put up? ” 

“Travellers? My dear sir, no travellers 
ever come to the out-of-the-way, God-forgot- 
ten spot which is San Severino,” replied Giulio 
Cesare. 

“ But the diligence is full of people.” 

“ These belong to the places in the neigh- 
boring country. If an occasional visitor 
arrives, he is entertained at the house of his 
relatives or friends.” 

“ Delightful ! ” I exclaimed. “ This is the 
place I have long sought in vain.” 

At this the reverendo pricked up his ears and 
eyed me suspiciously. Drawing his long black 
gown over his knees with a cautious air he said : 

“ The signore is tired of society ! ” 

“Yes; I seek retirement for a time.” 

“ Why not go into a monastery? ” 

“Is there a monastery where an extern 
might lodge?” I inquired. 

“A very fine Franciscan monastery not half 
a mile from the town. Alas ! it is not what 
it once was ; but for one who seeks a tempo- 
rary retirement its gates are open.” 

270 


The Duel 


The young man smiled and said : 

“ But, reverendoy the English gentleman 
might not care for the society of the good 
frati always lamenting their wrongs.” 

“ It depends,” returned the priest. And 
they both looked at me, expecting me to say 
with what party I sympathized. I maintained 
a reserved tone, and replied : 

“ I should live by myself, occupied with my 
own studies.” I think the priest suspected 
that I was a fugitive, if not from the law, at 
least from society, and that the sanctuary of a 
monastery was just suited to my case. 

The conversation then turned on the dif- 
ficulties of our respective languages, and I 
found Signor Giulio Cesare knew some Eng- 
lish, as most young Italians do now, and was 
familiar with our best authors, which he read 
in the original. This was a pleasing variety in 
the monotony of diligence travelling; but I 
was destined to have another surprise in the 
course of the journey. 

We were congratulating ourselves on the 
departure of two peasants, and enjoying the 
room they had vacated, when the coach pulled 
up at the gate of a villa. There was a party 
of five, but only three wanted seats : a hand- 
271 


/ Stories from Italy 

some, blooming young lady, with a radiant 
complexion and little auburn curls on her 
white forehead ; dress, an intricate blending 
of black and crushed strawberry, a hat turned 
up at one side, long silk gloves, and gold 
bracelets outside them ; — a second lady, still 
younger, slight, dark-haired, in a cream-col- 
ored china- silk dust cloak, broad-leaved Tuscan 
hat, with a little trembling sheaf of corn and 
poppies mixed ; — a beautiful child of three or 
fours years, evidently the daughter of the 
handsome blonde, in white frock and blue 
sash, — little frock and much sash. The girl 
in the dust cloak and straw hat was silent and 
quiet, while the handsome lady in crushed 
strawberry was talkative and vivacious. 

“Per V amor di cielo ! ” she exclaimed; 
“ is this the vehicle that they put on the road 
in such murderous heat ? Can you give a seat 
outside to the signorina? She cannot bear the 
close air inside. Make her ill? Yes, surely. 
It would make any one ill. My dear, you 
must hold your face to the window ; there ’s 
no help for it. Good-by, Luigi ; good-by, 
Emilia : many thanks. If you only knew 
what a delicious place this is ! It is an 
inferno / ” 


272 


The Duel 


And the lady smiled sweetly as she waved 
her fan to her friends, and then looked round 
at her fellow passengers with a compassion- 
ating air. At that moment she caught the 
eye of the young advocate — I had learnt his 
profession from his talk with the priest — who 
was just saluting her companion. 

They shook hands, evidently surprised at 
meeting each other there, and the lady ex- 
plained that an accident to a horse had ob- 
liged them to return to their own villa in the 
diligence. They seemed pleased to see each 
other, and began to talk in an animated man- 
ner. Giulio Cesare caressed the child, stroked 
her long, golden hair, and when she insisted 
on standing on the seat to look out, he held 
her carefully by the big sash. The lovely 
sprite, like most pretty children, knew she 
was admired, and was full of bewitching 
coquetries. Young Italians are much more 
fond of children than young Englishmen ; but 
still, I half expected that so much devotion 
to the infant was partly for the sake of the 
pretty mamma. 

“Are you sleepy, Minerva?” asked the 
married lady suddenly. 

“ No ; why sleepy? ” returned the girl. 

18 273 


Stories from Italy 


“You are so silent.” 

“ I hope the heat does not incommode the 
signorina,” said the advocate. “Would you 
like my place? It is more shady. Yes, pray 
do me the favor.” 

And he handed her with a stately politeness 
to his corner. 

She was now opposite me, and I began to 
observe her, as one cannot help doing when 
one is vis-a-vis with another in a coach. She 
had a clear, pale skin, brown hair, and soft, 
brown eyes : not so striking or attractive in 
appearance as her companion, but thoughtful 
and interesting. Her hands were very small, 
and the thin silk gloves she wore did not con- 
ceal their beautiful form. 

Signor Giulio Cesare had drawn me into the 
conversation by asking me questions about 
England for the benefit of the ladies ; and so 
I began to talk a little to them, too, and had 
the pleasure of hearing my own language 
spoken tolerably by the young lady, and 
lisped very prettily by the child, whom she 
had taught, and who was her cousin. The 
time passed much more pleasantly than 
usual in the diligence, and it seemed but 
a short space when the ladies got out at the 
274 


The Duel 

gate of their villa, about two miles from San 
Severino. 

“ Ecco casa mia ,” said the advocate, as we 
approached the ancient village, pointing to an 
imposing edifice standing on a slight emi- 
nence, with a high, square tower. 

“ What a grand old castle ! And do you 
live there all alone with your servants, si- 
gnore?” I asked: for I had been informed 
previously that he had no parents or family. 
He laughed. 

“I occupy a very modest quarter on the 
groundfloor. My retainers are very easily ac- 
commodated. A contadino and his wife, who 
live on the premises, lend me all the service 
I need.” 

“What a pity!” I exclaimed, thinking I 
saw before me the last scion of a decayed, 
noble family. “ I suppose you are much at- 
tached to your ancestral home? ” 

“ It is not my ancestral home. My father 
bought it with the farm.” 

I suppose I looked disappointed at the ro- 
mance being spoiled, for the young man’s face 
wore a sarcastic smile as he said : “We are not 
all counts and marquises now-a-days, though 
there are still enough, heaven knows ! ” 

275 


Stories from Italy 

“ He belongs to a good old family, never- 
theless,” put in the priest, “who might have 
borne a title if they pleased. But Signor Ro- 
signoli is a fierce democrat.” 

“ He has names long enough for a Spanish 
hidalgo ,” I thought within myself. “What 
business has a lawyer to be called Giulio Cesare 
Rosignoli? ” And the young man said : 

“.What the good padre calls a fierce demo- 
crat is a very moderate Liberal. I assure you 
I am not an Internationalist or a Nihilist. If 
you will do me the pleasure of calling as soon 
as you have settled on your lodging, I will 
show a fine view from my tower.” 

He handed me his card, and I offered him 
mine, as I replied : “ Most willingly.” 

“ What an intelligent, charming young fel- 
low that is ! ” I said to the priest, when he 
was gone. 

“Yes; and he is very upright and honest, 
though somewhat extravagant in his ideas.” 

I did not pursue the subject, for I knew 
wherein they differed ; it was the everlasting 
question of Church property appropriated by 
the State. We drew up in the main street of 
the village near the restaurant, or inn. The 
priest took off his broad-brimmed hat, said he 
276 


The Duel 


had the honor to salute me, and trotted off to 
the curate’s house. I ordered dinner at the inn, 
but hesitated to engage the room, that looked 
into a dirty lane with high houses, and wash- 
ings suspended from the upper-floor windows. 
I conceived the bold idea of calling on the 
Syndic and enlisting his services. 

The Syndic was an important magnate, who 
owned property and lived in a palazzo ; but 
he received me with great courtesy, asked what 
was my “ revered name,” and what my scope 
or object in remaining in San Severino, which 
seemed an unaccountable whim to him ; and, 
being satisfied on these points, he promised to 
make inquiries about lodgings for me. When 
I came out from the presence of the magis- 
trate I happened to meet my new friend Giulio 
Cesare, who carried me off to his castle. 


277 


CHAPTER II 


Only an honest man 
Doing his duty. 

Mrs. Craik. 

HERE were two enor- 
mous stone pillars at 
the entrance of a 
short avenue of cy- 
presses, but the gate 
had disappeared. 
The avenue was 
trim and clean, and 
at either side of it were thickly planted and 
well-cared-for olives, figs, vines, mulberries, 
and acacias, making a pleasant shade. The 
orchards were quite unprotected, yet the 
owner assured me that he had never been 
robbed. The building covered a large space 
of ground enclosing a square court, into which 
we passed under the great tower. The gate 
of this had also been removed, and opposite 
the open entrance was the stable, with a fresco 
over the door. The rest of the walls were 
278 



The Duel 


washed a sober yellow brown, not out of keep- 
ing with the venerable aspect of the castle. 
There were no grasses or cobwebs or dust; 
everything was neat and orderly, and there 
was a great abundance of water, — two pumps 
close to the house, and in the garden a spring- 
well of such profundity and purity that the 
late owner, the father of Giulio Cesare, had 
built an imposing covering to it that looked 
like a gothic chapel. 

“ We have great respect for pure water ; 
and this is proprio una galanteria said the 
master with a smile. “ My poor tenants ap- 
preciate it.” 

In the courtyard my host opened a door to 
the left which led into a vast salon with lofty 
frescoed ceiling, furnished alia antica . One 
door out of this apartment opened into the 
bed-chamber of the master, which had still an 
inner room beyond it. Another door led to a 
little range of buildings which had been added 
on to the castle at a later period than that of 
its foundation ; and here I was introduced to 
the dining-room and kitchen. 

We sat down in the semi-twilight of the 
lofty salon , enjoying the delicious coolness 
secured by its thick, impenetrable walls. 

279 


Stories from Italy 

When my eyes got accustomed to the dim- 
ness, I looked round at the massive, antique 
furniture and the pictures. Instead of an- 
cestral portraits in velvet and lace ruffles, with 
pointed beards and wicked eyes, I met the 
familiar faces of modern men who had made 
Italy a nation. 

“ Victor Emmanuel, Cavour, La Marmora, 
Azeglio, Ricasoli, Farini,” said Signor Rosi- 
gnoli, presenting them in turn. 

“ And Garibaldi? ” I asked. 

“ Here he is in the place of honor at the 
end of the room,” he replied, opening a 
window to let in a little light. “ And here,” 
— pointing to a large photograph framed in 
carved wood, — “ here is a foreigner who still 
must stand among those who have contributed 
to make Italy ; to whom we owe a deep debt 
of gratitude ; the greatest and noblest man in 
England.” 

I did not need to look at the picture to 
see whose it was ; I had so often heard Italians 
express themselves in the same terms. I felt 
a thrill of pride and pleasure, as is natural 
when one hears a great compatriot praised in 
a foreign land and a foreign tongue. But I 
did not show any pleasure. 

280 


The Duel 


“A very good likeness, and a handsome 
frame,” I remarked. “Signore, you are a 
true type of the Nuova Italia; the old narrow 
family pride is sunk in the new national 
pride. But do not they seem somewhat out 
of place, — these modern heroes in this old 
fortress which belonged to the Age of the 
Despots? ” 

“ It belonged to a real despot — the Duke 
of Athens,” he replied. “ Out of place? No. 
We living men are dreadfully modern and 
commonplace, are we not? Yet we surround 
ourselves with antique furniture, china, and 
pictures — when we can afford them — undis- 
turbed by the incongruity of our own presence 
among them. We enjoy the shelter of these 
ancient walls, whilst we dress, think, and act 
like nineteenth-century men. Why should we 
hesitate, then, to put the greatest and best 
representatives of our age and country on those 
walls, that we may look at them and draw in- 
spiration from them ? See here : I have on 
my book-shelves Shakespeare and Dante, 
Tennyson, Longfellow, Browning, Goethe, and 
Schiller, with others of greater or less note, 
ancient and modern ; and I take some good 
out of them all. ‘We’re the heirs of all 
281 


Stories from Italy 

the ages ! ’ Let us enjoy our inheritance 
freely.” 

“ By all means,” I returned, smiling at his 
animation, for he talked with his hands as 
well as his tongue, and seemed to have a 
lively interest in every subject discussed. 

We now descended the steep, dark stone 
stairs to the vaults, preceded by the gardener 
with a torch and a bundle of keys. They 
were dark dungeons of vast extent, and the 
man held up the light to show the traditional 
trap-door where the victims of the tyrant’s 
vengeance were dropped down to be mangled 
or spiked below. And then he led us to a 
corner, and removing a large, flat stone, held 
the torch over an aperture in the earth, and 
requested me to look down. It was a deep 
hole heaped with human bones. 

“ Oh, those were glorious times ! the good 
old times ! ” said my host, continuing the sub- 
ject of our previous conversation. “No wonder 
you English travellers love to dwell on them 
and study them, and lament the picturesque- 
ness, the romance, which are gone, never to 
return. There is no inspiring theme for poet 
or painter now-a-days. What are modern men, 
who sacrificed everything for the emancipation 
282 


The Duel 


of their country, who were tender of human 
life, who respected their promises, compared 
with those glorious old tyrants with so many 
real skeletons in their cupboards? ” 

“ But see what marvellously gifted men 
flourished in those evil days,” I said. 

“ And how were those gifted men treated ? 
Would the Florence of to-day exile a Dante ? 
Would Italy allow her Michel Angelo to be 
the slave of a succession of old popes ? Would 
she permit a petty prince to shut up Tasso in 
a madhouse for seven years ? Believe me, we 
have all that was good of the past in the im- 
mortal works of the men of genius, who were 
unappreciated by their age,” returned my 
host. 

We were now ascending to the tower, and 
at length reached the top, a large, square ter- 
race, walled all round breast high with loop- 
holes. It commanded a magnificent view of 
a most pleasing landscape. 

“ What a contrast to the vaults ! ” I ex- 
claimed. 

In descending the narrow, steep stairs, we 
* passed two rooms, one above the other, and 
entered the last, where some straw was stored. 
It was a square the full size of the tower, but 
283 


Stories from Italy 


had a closet off it which covered the landing 
below ; the thick walls and deep windows made 
a delightful coolness and shade. A thought 
struck me. 

“ Signore, do you make no use of this 
room? ” 

“ None but what you see.” 

“ Will you let it to me, and I will furnish it 
in some manner for myself? ” 

“ My dear sir, I should be most happy to 
have you for a tenant, but it is not habitable ! ” 

“ Never mind ! I can live in any place, so 
it be clean. And this is a good room, a de- 
lightful, charming room.” 

The traditional Italian would have raised 
the rent on me, seeing my enthusiasm for the 
article which he thought worthless, but Giulio 
Cesare let me have it for what would be popu- 
larly described as “an old song.” 

I got a contadina to wash out my tower ; 
I hunted up odds and ends of furniture ; a 
stretcher-bed with a mattress of Indian corn 
leaves was supplied by my host, who would 
have added a wool mattress had I not firmly 
refused to use it, and linen, of which he had a 
great store, like all the Tuscan householders. 
I returned to town, put my trunk, bag, and 
284 


The Duel 


box of books on the diligence for San Seve- 
rino, and then went to meet my new landlord, 
who drove me to the villa in his little trap, 
taking an hour less than the diligence. 

A long country drive tete-a-tete is conducive 
to intimacy between two young men, and Giu- 
lio Cesare and I were mutually pleased with 
each other. He invited me to dine with him 
the first evening, and when we had smoked a 
cigar walking up and down the avenue, we 
passed into the salon. In the far end of this 
baronial apartment the young avvocato had 
modestly established himself and his immedi- 
ate belongings. To light up the whole length 
of the hall would have been too expensive, so 
one end was in dusky twilight while the other 
had two lamps, one on the writing-table and 
the other on a handsome ebony cabinet. This 
end-wall had three book-cases, and there was 
a table under the middle one covered with 
books. I took up a volume off the writing- 
table and found it to be Emerson’s “ Repre- 
sentative Men,” opened at the essay on 
Shakespeare. We plunged into literature at 
once, and I learned that Rosignoli was study- 
ing Shakespeare, and was glad of a little help 
in understanding some difficult passages. 

285 


Stories from Italy 

“ How do you find so much time for reading 
when you have so many other occupations? ” 
I asked, for I knew he worked hard at his 
profession, and equally so on the farm. The 
moment he unyoked his horse he took off his 
good clothes and donned a suit of coarse white 
linen and a straw hat, and put a hand to every- 
thing, like the contadini. But whether feeding 
cattle, or tending or watering his vineyard, or 
chopping wood, there was something in his 
refined, intelligent face, in the bearing of his 
well-knit, sinewy figure, that bespoke the 
gentleman. 

“ How do I find time ? I will tell you : by 
never losing an hour unnecessarily. I rise at 
five o’clock, and that enables me to get some 
hours more out of my day than those who 
sleep late. Those who go into society must 
keep late hours and sleep in the morning; 
consequently, I abandon society, and only cul- 
tivate a few intimate friends. Thus I have my 
evenings for myself. I keep my heavy read- 
ing in town, but while leading a pastoral life 
I recreate my soul with poetry.” 

He saw I was interested, and with an en- 
gaging frankness he continued. 

“ I am obliged to work, not having been 
286 


The Duel 


bom to a fortune. I had a sad youth with 
many trials. Among those I count the worst 
was the loss of my parents at an early age. 
My father bought this farm for me with a leg- 
acy that had been left him, but he did not make 
it pay, because he was ignorant of agriculture ; 
but I make it pay now. The house is divided 
into different quarters and let to poor families, 
for the most part ; some of them work for me, 
and some have other occupations; but they 
are all decent, clean, honest folk, and attached 
to me. I supply them with pure water, cheap 
wine, and vegetables, and they are very punc- 
tual in the payment of the rents. I like work 
for its own sake, and I am happy and content 
with my humble lot, never envying the owners 
of the princely villas around me. If I did not 
look after everything myself, and left all to a 
steward, as the gentlemen do, I should soon 
have nothing.” 

Signor Rosignoli escorted me upstairs to my 
lodging in the tower, carrying a lucerna to light 
me, and bade me a kindly good-night on the 
threshold. He had told me that I might, if I 
liked, make an arrangement to dine with him ; 
but I, knowing how Italians prize the privacy 
of their home, did not accept this sacrifice. I 
287 


Stories from Italy 

decided to take my meals at the little restau- 
rant and supplement them with tea and bis- 
cuits, which I was careful to bring with me ; 
and I had fresh milk on the premises. My 
host was most kind and courteous, but we saw 
little of each other in the daytime. Generally, 
when I was returning from my dinner about 
seven o’clock, I met him outside the house 
somewhere, smoking, and we took a walk, re- 
turning to finish the evening together in the 
salon , reading and expounding our respective 
languages to each other ; and sometimes I went 
straight up to my room. 

I was as happy as a prince in my tower. 
From my windows I surveyed the lovely land- 
scape, the gently undulating hills and vales, 
covered with fine olives, chestnuts, vineyards, 
ripe corn, dotted with scarlet poppies, the deep 
blue sky, the crimson sunset, and golden sun- 
rise. I liked the San Severini, too ; they were 
good, honest people, and religious. I often 
looked into the church, which was at our gate, 
sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the 
evening, when service was going on, and I 
always found a devout congregation of simple 
peasants taking a genuine interest in the de- 
votions. I attended on Sunday with my friend 
288 


The Duel 


and found a large sprinkling of well-dressed 
persons from the villas around. Among these 
I observed the fair ladies of the diligence ; and 
Giulio stayed to speak with them outside the 
church. 


19 


289 


CHAPTER III 


One touch of nature 
Makes us all akin. 

Shakespeare. 

FEW days after my 
arrival in San Seve- 
rino I was writing 
till after sunset, and 
though it was still 
bright out-of-doors, 
the twilight invaded 
my chamber because 
of the smallness of the windows and the depth 
of the walls. It was hardly worth while to 
take my papers up to the terrace, where there 
was a stone table and bench ; so I stood at 
the window making a desk of the broad sill, to 
finish a chapter. A page which I had pushed 
hastily from me fluttered out through the win- 
dow; and it was easier to rewrite it than 
descend those break-neck stairs to seek it. 
When I had finished my work for the day, I 
290 



The Duel 


went up to the roof, where I often took the 
air before going to bed. I was walking up 
and down, watching a procession of Miseri- 
cordia Brothers issuing forth from the church 
at the end of the avenue, with their flaming 
torches, when my host appeared. 

“ Amico” he said in his easy, Italian fashion, 
— he had begun to call me amico in three 
days, — “ are you not dreadfully lonely up here 
in this hermitage, like St. Simeon on the top 
of a tower?’' 

“No,” I replied. “I have a few favorite 
authors with me, and I am absorbed in a 
little work that I am writing con amore , the 
subject being very simpatico. I don’t know 
any English word that exactly corresponds 
with simpatico — do you?” 

“Ah,” he said, ignoring my question, “ and 
you would not trust a friend with the secret? 
Well, I have accidentally discovered it. 
Listen ! ” 

And he drew from his pocket the sheet 
that had flown out of the window, and read it 
aloud from beginning to end. 

“ Enough ! ” I cried, laughing. “ You have 
found me out — a Liberal in disguise. Do 
not inform on me, pray.” 

291 


Stories from Italy 

“ Impostor ! ” said Giulio Cesare. “ What 
was your motive for deceiving me? ” 

“ Motive? Why, I hardly know, unless it 
was to rouse your enthusiasm ; diversity of 
opinion gives a certain vivacity to conversa- 
tion. I suppose you have come to give me 
notice to quit?” 

The Italian of fiction would be bound to 
say, “ Brother of my soul, welcome to my 
home and my heart ! ” But this real Italian 
said nothing at all. We looked at each other 
with a smile and shook hands, and there was 
a tacit promise of friendship in that silent 
hand- clasp. 

After this our intercourse was more free, 
and we dropped the Signore , calling each 
other by our baptismal names, Italian fashion. 

The San Severini celebrated the fete of 
their patron saint of that name with great 
honors. Clergy had come from a distance to 
assist at the functions; special preparations 
had been made by the choir, and the church 
was draped inside and out with crimson and 
gold cloth. The owners of the villas had 
sent handsome offerings of flowers, and so 
also had Giulio Cesare, who paid every respect 
to the forms of religion while in the country, 
292 


The Duel 


not to “ disedify the population, or make a 
scandal.” In the city he permitted himself 
more liberty, and laughed with me over the 
pretensions of San Severino. 

On the day of the fete I was in the church 
leaning against a pillar, watching the moving 
crowd. The people were squeezing them- 
selves into every nook and corner, standing 
and sitting on the steps of the side altars ; and 
I became aware of a fair presence in a con- 
fession-box near me, by the constant waving 
of an ivory fan. I soon perceived that the 
owner of the fan was the lady of the diligence, 
the Signora Maddalena Buontalento ; and 
standing beside her with her eyes bent on her 
prayer-book was her young cousin, Minerva 
Nerucci. I observed that Giulio often turned 
his eyes in the direction of the confession- 
box, and I was not surprised to find him talk- 
ing to the ladies outside the church door 
when I came forth with the crowd. 

The Signora Buontalento was very friendly 
to me, and said : “Won’t you come over to 
the villa with your friend?” 

“With the greatest pleasure, Signora.” 

“I told Signor Giulio to bring you sans 
ctrkmonie, but he said you shunned society and 
293 


Stories from Italy 

lived as a hermit. How do you support the 
dulness of San Severino ? ” 

“ I think it charming, Madame.” 

“ Where is myLuisina?” asked the avvo- 
cato. 

“ She was very naughty, and I left her at 
home,” returned mamma, smiling. 

“ Little darling ! ” said the young man. “ I 
like her best when she is naughty.” 

“ You would not if you had to manage her. 
Ask Minerva if she finds it easy to teach her 
or keep her in order.” 

We saw the ladies to their carriage, prom- 
ising to walk over in the evening to their 
villa. 

“ Is the Signora Buontalento long a widow? ” 
I inquired. 

“More than two years. She was married 
fresh out of a convent at seventeen to a rich 
elderly merchant, who left her the angeletto 
you have seen. Her hand has been sought 
by several suitors.” 

“ I am not surprised ; she is pretty, good- 
natured, young, and, I suppose, rich.” 

“Yes; do you admire her?” asked my 
friend. 

“Not particularly; I like her companion 
294 


The Duel 


better,” I replied, “ though she is not so 
handsome.” 

“ She has very little dot ; in fact, is in 
rather a dependent position.” 

“ That does not make her society less 
agreeable.” 

“ No, that is true ; but — ” 

Giulio paused. 

“ But what, my friend? ” 

“ You will not take ill what I am going to 
say — w r hat I have no right to say?” asked 
the awocato . 

“ No, no ; out with it.” 

“ You are a foreigner, and our customs are 
somewhat different from yours. In England 
a certain amount of intimacy is permitted be- 
tween young people, but here it is not consid- 
ered convenable to show a decided preference 
for a girl unless with serious intentions.” 

“You have warned me in time,” I said 
laughing. “ I know your customs and had no 
mind to transgress them.” 

“ Now you are a little angry — non e vero ? ” 
he said with an apologetic smile, and a win- 
ning gentleness of manner which would have 
disarmed me even if I had been angry, which 
I was not. 


295 


Stories from Italy 

“ Che , che /” and I put my arm through 
his, as we walked up and down the shady 
court, smoking. “ How delightful it is here 
after the hot, crowded church ! It was what 
Madame would call a murderous heat.” 

We passed a pleasant evening at the villa 
of the ladies, for the most part out-of-doors. 
Another visitor dropped in : a country gentle- 
man of about thirty-five years, large, powerful, 
handsome ; whose conversation was chiefly 
about horses, dogs, and villas to let. He 
seemed to be paying court to the widow, and 
I attributed to jealousy a certain polite antag- 
onism towards my friend. 

That such an intelligent, charming fellow as 
Giulio could fall in love with such an empty, 
commonplace person did not surprise me, as 
I see those incongruities too often to wonder 
at them much. Her florid beauty, her genial, 
happy temperament had no doubt attracted 
him ; and probably the lady’s fortune was not 
without its influence on the prudent, young 
avvocato . 

“ I am as fond of that child as if she were 
mine,” he said with reference to the little 
Luisina. 

“ Perhaps she will be yours some day,” I 
296 


The Duel 


thought. And I said : “ I hope the child will 
get a good step-father, who will treat her 
kindly.” 

“ I hope so ; he would be a brute else. She 
is more beautiful than Leonardo da Vinci’s 
angels.” 

On the following night there was to be a 
display of fireworks, — still in honor of San 
Severino, — and the ladies had been persuaded 
to promise to come with Signor Rossi, the 
gentleman already mentioned, to witness them 
from the' top of the tower. Another neighbor, 
and his wife and daughter, were also invited 
to be of the party. 

When the fireworks began to play, Signor 
Rossi offered to lift the child in his arms to 
see all that was going on ; but she, with the 
caprice of a spoiled beauty, turned away, 
saying : 

“ No, not you ; Signor Giulio,” and held up 
her arms to him. The young man caught her 
up and kissed her, carrying her away to the 
side of the terrace where I was standing with 
the Signorina Minerva. 

“ You should not say rude things, Luisina. 
It was not kind to tell Signor Rossi that you 
would not let him lift you,” said Minerva. 

297 


Stories from Italy 

“ Forgive her, Signorina mia ; frankness is 
the privilege of her age ; she will learn to dis- 
semble her true sentiments time enough,” said 
the avvocato . 

“ Do you not think it possible to be polite 
and true at the same time?” asked the girl. 

“ Quite so ; but it requires a special educa- 
tion as well as natural tact to adjust the claims 
of truth and politeness impartially. Our dear 
Luisina is not yet up to the mark.” 

“ I am up to the mark on the garden door,” 
said Luisina complacently, in her lisping ac- 
cents. We all laughed ; Minerva’s was a low, 
sweet, subdued laugh, very pleasant to hear, 
and more so because of its rarity. Giulio 
turned away, set the child down, and began a 
game of romps with her round the table and 
seats. I thought I observed by the blaze of 
the fireworks a confirmation of a suspicion I 
had entertained since I had seen Minerva in 
church and at the villa, that 

Her eyes on all his motions 
With a mute observance hung. 


I did not wonder that the girl was attracted 
by him. I found him charming, and could 
imagine him to be an irresistible lover. But 
298 


The Duel 


whose lover was he? I fancied that of the 
Signora Maddalena. 

When we were about to descend the steep 
stairs of the tower, Giulio asked Rossi to carry 
the child ; but that gentleman replied stiffly that 
she did not wish to be carried by him ; where- 
upon the avvocato gave me the light and took 
the little one himself. We had some slight 
refreshments in the salon downstairs before 
the guests departed, but Signor Rossi tasted 
nothing, and talked little. 


299 


CHAPTER IV 


The world prevailed and its dread laugh. 

Thomson’s Seasons. 

WO days after the fire- 
works, I was alone 
in my room, when 
my host appeared 
at the hour of the 
afternoon when he 
usually reposed. 

“ I thought you 
were asleep,” I said, pushing a chair towards 
him. “ What is the news?” He looked pale, 
and his eyes were very bright. 

“ Gerard, I want you to do me a little 
service.” 

“ Willingly ; tell me how.” 

“ I have arranged a ‘ partita d onore ' for 
to-morrow. The doctor will be my first 
sponsor, but I must have a second.” 

“ 1 Partita d' onore ? ’ You are not serious.” 

“ I am perfectly serious,” he replied. 

3 °° 



The Duel 


“ Do you mean to say, Giulio, that you are 
really going to fight, or that you will go 
through the comedy of firing a shot over your 
adversary’s shoulder, or giving him a slight 
scratch with a sword?” 

“ We mean real business, my friend. It is 
agreed that the combat is only to cease when 
one or the other is beyond the possibility of 
continuing it.” 

“ And you invite me to assist at this as if it 
were a pic-nic? Is it allowable to ask the 
cause of the desperate resolve to slay or be 
slain ? ” 

“ Surely : Signor Rossi insulted me to-day 
in presence of the doctor and two other per- 
sons. A letter of his was sent from the post- 
office by mistake with mine. The names 
Rossi and Rosignoli are not very similar, 
but still such mistakes often occur. It hap- 
pened that the said letter was imperfectly 
gummed, if at all, and he accuses me of 
having opened it. You see such an insult 
is insupportable. There is but one way of 
avenging it.” 

“ You require the man’s blood?” 

“ We must fight. I don’t care whose blood 
is shed ! It may be mine.” 

3 QI 


Stories from Italy 

“ If he retracted and apologized, you would 
be satisfied. Is it not so? ” 

“He would not do it. He has sought a 
pretext for a quarrel.” 

“Why?” I asked. 

Giulio hesitated. “ I may tell you in con- 
fidence that I believe he is a pretender to the 
hand of the Signora Maddalena, and he thinks 
I am ; but he is mistaken.” 

“ I thought so myself,” I said, much sur- 
prised by this confession. “ But if it be all a 
mistake, it will be the more easy to accom- 
modate the quarrel.” 

“Do you suppose I would explain such a 
matter unasked?” he said. “Never!” 

“ You would rather die — or else have a 
man’s blood on your conscience all your life? 
To send a fellow creature out of the world, 
his soul full of evil passions, is too serious a 
deed to decide on hastily. Reflect, my friend. 
Late remorse cannot recall the dead ; and as 
your wise d’Azeglio says somewhere : ‘ The 
reproaches of the dead are hard to bear.’ You 
have not the strong temptation that he has, 
for you are not jealous. It will count as an ex- 
tenuating circumstance in his favor, and it will 
weigh against you at the bar of eternal justice.” 

302 


The Duel 


“ You will not be my second, then ? ” 

“ Frankly, Giulio, I will not, for I think duel- 
ling a brutal and barbarous practice, worthy 
of the past ages which you so much despise.” 

“I may as well confess, Gerard, that I 
agree with you in everything that you have 
said,” returned Giulio. 

“ Allora V' I cried, seizing his hands and 
looking into his face. 

“ I must fight,” he replied, with a melan- 
choly resolve. “I am sorry for the absurd 
prejudice — a relic of barbarism, which still 
prevails in our beloved Italy. But I must 
yield to it, else there would be a slur on my 
honor ; both men and women would despise 
me. I am sorry ; for life had begun to open 
with happy promises for the future.” 

His voice took a tone of tender sadness, 
and a softer light came into his eyes. 

“ If there is some one in the world who is 
still dear to you, who is worthy of your af- 
fection — Giulio, my friend, let the thought of 
that person stand between you and crime — 
or death ! ” 

He shook his head sadly, hopelessly. 

“ You are a coward ! ” I cried, letting go 
his hands and turning away. 

303 


Stories from Italy 


“ How?” 

“ Yes ! I have called you a coward, and I 
will give you no satisfaction. You cannot dare 
to face the sneers of the thoughtless, vulgar 
herd, the idle, worthless, ignorant men of the 
clubs and cafes; but you dare to commit a 
crime which your conscience loudly condemns. 
Go ! You are a coward, I say.” 

I turned away and walked to the window, 
and immediately I heard the door shut. He 
was gone. 

Giulio was the most lovable man I had ever 
known. I had become much attached to him, 
and I was deeply grieved and disturbed. I 
pondered on various schemes of frustrating the 
meeting, and at last thought of appealing to 
the Signora Maddalena Buontalento, which 
seemed the only chance. It was surely her 
business to prevent two men killing each other 
because of her. 

I took my hat and set forth at once. When 
I reached the villa I asked to see the mistress 
of the house, who received me with her usual 
cordial, gracious manner. The Signorina was 
in the room, and I asked for a moment’s pri- 
vate conversation on urgent business. Minerva 
rose at once, but the Signora laid her hand on 
3°4 


The Duel 


hers and hindered her, saying to me : “ You 
may speak, Signore. I have no secrets from 
my cousin.” 

“ There is no reason why I should conceal 
it from the Signorina,” I replied. “ It has 
come to my knowledge that there is going to 
be a duel between the Signor Giulio Cesare 
and Signor Rossi. This ‘partita d ’ onorej as 
they call it, is arranged for to-morrow morn- 
ing ; and it seems it is to be a serious affair — 
not a diversion.” 

The bright color faded from the lady’s face. 
I looked at the young girl who was sitting with 
her work in her lap and her pretty hands folded 
on it. She, too, had grown pale, and her 
brown eyes were fixed on me with a startled 
expression. 

“ You see, Signora, I can do nothing : I am 
a stranger and a man, and no one would listen 
to me. But ladies have a powerful influence 
if they choose to use it ; and I dared to hope 
— as both these gentlemen are your friends — 
that you would be so good as to interfere. 
You will know how better than I should.” 

“ Do you know the cause of the quarrel? ” 
asked the lady, with a troubled look. 

“The ostensible cause, yes; Signor Rossi 
3°S 


20 


Stories from Italy 

says that Signor Rosignoli opened a letter of 
his.” 

“ What a shame ! ” cried Minerva, blushing 
to the brow. 

The Signora remained silent and thoughtful, 
leaning her cheek on her plump, white hand 
sparkling with jewels, her large, blue eyes full 
of trouble. 

“ Pray advise me what to do,” she said at 
length. “ I am so taken by surprise that the 
little wits I have are confused.” 

“The offender is Signor Rossi, and he is 
also the elder ; suppose you summon him to 
your presence and remonstrate with him.” 

She agreed to do this, and went at once to 
write a note to be sent to the gentleman’s 
house. The young lady glanced at me once 
or twice, and at last said : “ Cannot you do 
something to prevent this meeting, Signore?” 

“ Signorina, tell me what ; I shall be only 
too happy to obey your commands,” I re- 
plied. 

“You are Signor Giulio’s friend.” 

“ Yes, I love him well, and I have already 
pushed my remonstrances to the point of break- 
ing our friendship.” 

“ He is so bent on fighting ? ” 

306 


The Duel 


“ He says he must ; that both men and wo- 
men would despise him if he did not.” 

She sighed audibly, took up her work and 
plied the needle with trembling fingers. I had 
nothing to say to soothe the distress which she 
was unwilling that I should see; so the 
moment the Signora returned I took my 
leave. 

As I was coming home from a walk in the 
evening I found a young man, a notary of San 
Severino, standing at the foot of my stairs, 
just outside the salon of the Signor Giulio. He 
accosted me and asked me if I had any ob- 
jection to witness a will. 

“Whose will?” I asked. 

“ Signor Rosignoli’s. Four male witnesses 
are necessary, and we want one.” 

I followed him, and walked up the long, 
gloomy hall. At the far end of it, seated at 
his writing-table with his steward and another 
man standing near, was the young master of 
the house. Letters were burning in the grate, 
and there was a general air of confusion 
around. When he saw me emerging into the 
light of his solitary lamp, he rose with the po- 
liteness that never failed, and said : “ Signor 
Gerard, I did not mean them to trouble you ; 

307 


Stories from Italy 

but since you are here, perhaps you will not 
object to witness my will? ” 

I said I had no objection. The notary then 
read the testament aloud. With the exception 
of some trifling personal belongings and a few 
books left to persons named, the Signorina 
Minerva Nerucci was to inherit all his prop- 
erty. The testator put his signature to the 
document and handed the pen to me. I 
signed ; the others did likewise ; and wishing 
the padrone felice notte — which must have 
sounded a hollow mockery to him — they 
departed. 

I was following the steward out of the room, 
but I turned to take another look at Giulio. 
There was something indescribably pathetic in 
the figure of the lonely young man standing 
there, making preparations for his own death 
and funeral while in the full vigor of health, 
with a happy life before him if he chose. I 
saw in his eye a mournful look that went to 
my heart. I walked back to him and said : 

“ Giulio, I beg your pardon for my rude- 
ness this afternoon. If I loved you less, I 
should have been more polite.” And I of- 
fered my hand. 

“ I know you are sorry for me, Gerard,” he 
308 


The Duel 


said, pressing my hand warmly. “ I am sorry 
for myself. Life was becoming pleasant to 
me, for I was content with my lot, and I had 
become attached to my humble home here." 
He looked round at his heroes on the walls. 
“ I was happy in the thought that it would 
soon be made bright by the presence of my 
beloved. My will has revealed my secret to 
you. I love Minerva, and I am going to be 
killed for Maddalena ! ” 

“That is hard indeed," I replied. “To 
die for one’s love has a sort of consolation in 
it ; but to die for another ! And will it not 
look like disloyalty to her?" 

“ I have never spoken ; but I leave a 
sealed letter, which will reveal the truth to 
her when I am gone — if I should fall ; and 
of that there is little doubt, for I will not kill 
my adversary." 

“ Giulio, is there no way out of it? " 

“If you were Italian, you would know 
there is none. Addio / But, stay, Gerard : I 
want you to have a little ricordo of me." He 
took an antique seal off his chain and gave it 
me ; and then, laying his two hands on my 
shoulders with a winning grace and tender- 
ness, which would have softened a harder 
309 


Stories from Italy 

heart than mine, he said : “ Amico mio / you 
will not forget me ? ” 

“No, Giulio, no!” I replied with emo- 
tion. “ May God preserve and bless you ! ” I 
clasped the warm, living hand, and thought 
the morrow’s sun might find it cold and pulse- 
less. “ If this is likely to be our last meeting 
on earth, may I not stay a little to bear you 
company? ” 

“ I have to set my house in order,” he said. 
“ Thanks, dear friend, but you must leave 
me.” 

I was up at the dawn watching for Giulio 
from my tower, and I followed him at a little 
distance to the village. He stopped at the 
doctor’s house, and soon came forth with him 
and another man. They took the road to the 
Villa Buontalento, and within half a mile of it 
they turned into the wood. I now guessed 
that the meeting was to be in the glade by a 
little brook, because it was a very retired 
spot, with a sufficiently open space for the 
contest. 

“ I did not follow them, but ran to the villa 
and asked to see the ladies. Minerva came 
down first, in a cream-colored morning wrap- 
310 


The Duel 


per, fastened with a crimson bow at the neck. 
She looked as if she had not slept, and asked 
eagerly what news I had. 

“ They are gone to the ground. Has Ma- 
dame failed? ” 

“ The messenger left the note, for Rossi 
was not at home. He has not called, and 
I fear he is bent on carrying out his 
ends.” 

“Call Madame, and come both of you to 
the ground.” 

Maddalena soon appeared, and Minerva, 
taking a garden hat from a peg in the hall, 
stepped out on the lawn, holding up her long 
gown from the dewy grass, which soon wet 
her little bronze slippers. 

It is curious how well I remember noticing 
those trivial things, notwithstanding the state 
of excitement I was in. Instead of waiting 
for the pony carriage, we rushed across the 
grounds, taking a short cut to the brook. As 
we approached the glade we beheld through 
the trees a group of men looking on at the 
contest, which had already begun. The an- 
tagonists were parrying, advancing, retreating, 
with rapid motions which the eye could not 
follow at a distance. 

3 1 * 


Stories from Italy 

We quickened our pace, the ladies gasping 
with nervous excitement. 

" You must call on them to stop, and rush 
in between them, Signora,” I said. 

“ Must I ? Oh, Madonna Santissima, aid 
me ! ” cried the poor lady, and she ran for- 
ward, followed by her cousin. 

" Hold, gentlemen ! Hold, for the love of 
Heaven ! ” she cried, at the moment when 
Rossi sheathed the point of his blade in 
Giulio’s breast, and drew it forth stained with 
a crimson dye. Giulio stood upright a moment, 
and turned his eyes on Maddalena, as she 
threw up her arms and screamed, “ Mio Dio ! ” 
and then on Minerva, who stood still, an 
image of stony despair. As he was sinking to 
the ground, I caught him in my arms and 
laid him gently down, resting his head on my 
knee. The surgeon cut open his clothes 
from neck to shoulder and applied his medica- 
ments to stanch the blood, which flowed 
profusely from a deep, slanting cut in the 
chest. Before he had finished, Giulio’s al- 
ready pallid face had become a death-like 
white, and his eyelids closed. 

“ Is he dead?” asked some one, in a 
tone of deep anxiety and distress. It 
312 


The Duel 


was his rival, whose hand had dealt the 
blow. 

“ Dead ! ” echoed Maddalena, in an hyster- 
ical voice. “ Is it you who ask ? And have 
you the courage to stand there and look at your 
handiwork? Away, assassin!” She waved 
her hand and turned from him with a look of 
horror. He cowed beneath the lovely woman’s 
scorn, and moved back a pace or two behind 
the seconds. 

At the fatal word “ Morto” Minerva sank 
on her knees beside me with a heart-broken 
sob. For the first time she dared to speak her 
lover’s name. Laying her hand on his, she 
cried “ Giulio ! ” in a tone of such anguish that 
it helped to recall his consciousness. He 
opened his eyes and the first word he breathed 
was “ Minerva ! ” accompanied by a look of 
inexpressible love and sorrow mingled. She 
answered but with her tears, which fell like 
rain upon his hand. 

“ Where is Rossi?” asked the wounded 
man, and Rossi hastened to his side. Giulio, 
still holding Minerva’s hand clasped in his 
left, extended his right to his adversary. 

“ It was all a mistake,” he said, with a faint, 
pale smile. 


3i3 


Stories from Italy 

“ I wish to Heaven you had said so yester- 
day,” replied Rossi, remorsefully. 

“ True, most true. Ah, Gerard, my friend, 
you were right ; I was a coward, a miserable 
coward. If I die I have my deserts.” This 
elicited a fresh burst of grief from Minerva. 
“ Do not weep, dearest ; I am not worth those 
precious tears of thine. I do not want to die ; 
I would fain live for thee, my angel ! ” 

“You are not going to die — not a bit of 
it,” said the doctor, in a cheerful, businesslike 
manner. “ It is a bad wound, but I judge it 
curable within twenty days. Come, gentlemen ; 
we must make a litter of this mantle, and bring 
him to the villa as quickly as possible. 

Rossi was one of the persons who carried 
the patient to the house, where he was laid in 
the guest chamber and tended with the great- 
est care. The doctor was right. Giulio did 
not die. Having conducted themselves, as the 
seconds declared, like “ perfect cavaliers,” ac- 
cording to the code, there was nothing to hin- 
der Giulio and Rossi being very good friends 
henceforth. But the Signora Maddalena could 
hardly forgive her admirer for the part he played 
in what was very near being a fatal tragedy. It 
is just possible that she felt a warmer interest 
3*4 


The Duel 


in Giulio than in Rossi ; but in time her heart 
may soften to her faithful knight, whose fault 
was caused by love of her. 

After having assisted at the making of 
Giulio’s will, and such like lugubrious prepara- 
tions for his death, I had the pleasure of wit- 
nessing the happy ceremony of his marriage 
with the Signorina Minerva Nerucci, he having 
voluntarily given her a solemn pledge that he 
would never fight a duel again before he asked 
that other promise from her which was to make 
them one. 


3 1 5 


THE BODKIN LETTER 


A CHRISTMAS STORY 

T was a letter ad- 
dressed “ Signor A. 
Bodkin, Poste Res- 
tante, Florence,” 
which arrived one 
morning in that in- 
teresting city, and 
was placed in the 
second pigeon-hole in company with the 
other B’s to await the claimant. The 
claimants turned out to be two. When the 
hour of distribution arrived, and all the 
people, native and foreign, who choose to 
have their letters left in the post-office instead 
of having them delivered at their houses, and 
they are a good number in Italy, entered the 
large square court and gathered round the 
window of that department, a tall young 
Englishman of fair ruddy complexion, with 
dark hair and dark gray eyes, pushed forward 
316 



The Bodkin Letter 

impatiently. The official, who was serving 
the public in a leisurely manner, took no 
notice of him, and the people who stood round 
gave him to understand that every one must 
wait his turn. In the mean time another 
young man, who was before him and closer 
to the window, asked for his mail. The clerk 
threw out a letter on the marble sill which 
serves as a bulwark to keep the public at a 
little distance. The young man was about to 
seize it, but the tall Englishman, who read 
the address over his shoulder, stretched out 
his arm and laid a large forefinger on the 
letter, saying, — 

“ Excuse me, this is mine.” 

“But no, Signore,” said the Italian in ap- 
parent surprise. “ It is mine. Look at the 
name ! ” 

And he turned the letter towards the other, 
but held on to the end of it. 

“I see the name, Signore,” returned the 
Englishman with a pleasant smile. “ It is my 
name.” 

“ Bodkin ! ” exclaimed the Italian, — pro- 
nouncing it Bodkeen, — “it is my name.” 

“ There must be some mistake, Signore, or 
you are jesting. No Italian ever was born 
3*7 


Stories from Italy 

with that name, and very few Englishmen. 
In fact it belongs to only one family in the 
United Kingdom, an Anglo-Irish family. I 
dare swear that there is not another man in 
Italy called Bodkin. 

“ Caro Signore mio, excuse me, but the 
name is mine. I am Amedeo Bodkin.” 

“ Impossible, my dear sir, impossible ! ” ex- 
claimed the Englishman with an incredulous 
smile. “ This is an elaborate pleasantry,” he 
added, relapsing into English, “ and I want 
my letter.” 

At this point the clerk, who had been listen- 
ing to the dispute and neglecting his duties, 
said : 

“ Let me see the post-mark,” and took the 
letter in his hand. “ It has the head of Her 
Majesty Queen Victoria, and is stamped Lon- 
don. Are you from London, Signore?” he 
asked of the Englishman. 

“ No, but I have correspondents there.” 

“And I also,” said the Italian; “I have 
some friends there.” 

“ That letter is mine ; give it me, please,” 
said the Irish Bodkin, growing irate. 

“ It is mine, and I insist on having it ! ” 
said the Italian Bodkin with corresponding heat. 
31S 


The Bodkin Letter 

“What proof can you give of your iden- 
tity ? ” asked the clerk of the Irishman. “ Have 
you any acquaintance in the post-office who 
will recognize you as the Mr. Bodkin?” 

“ Bodkin , not Bodkeen ,” corrected the 
Irishman. “ I am a stranger. But here are 
my visiting-cards, and a letter received at 
Milan.” 

“This letter,” said the clerk, with the 
solemn air of a judge on the bench, “ is ad- 
dressed A. Bodkin , Esq., while the one in the 
dispute is Signor A. Bodkin .” 

“ Oh, that means nothing ; some of my 
friends write Signor because I am in Italy.” 

“ And have you any acquaintance here to 
prove your identity? ” to the Italian. 

“ Not in the post-office, but I have been in 
Florence three weeks, and I have been here 
before for letters.” 

“ I do not remember you. I cannot give 
this letter to either of you, gentlemen, until 
you bring some one to testify who you are.” 

And he replaced the letter in its pigeon- 
hole and attended to the patient Florentines 
who had been kept waiting for a considerable 
time. When the litigants saw the coveted 
epistle disappearing from view, they became 
3 1 9 


Stories from Italy 

very angry and stormed at the clerk, who, 
safe behind his official bulwarks, only smiled 
at their rage, and proceeded with his business. 
They were pushed away from the window by 
the crowd, and then they turned on one an- 
other. The Italian, gesticulating with his 
small brown hands and speaking in a very 
excited tone, insisted that the letter belonged 
to him, and he would bring evidence enough 
to procure it. The Irishman stood on the 
uniqueness of his name ; he would not con- 
sent to the idea that any one could bear it 
except one of his own stock, much less a 
foreigner. 

“ The Bodkins of the County Galway are 
the only Bodkins in the Kingdom — in the 
world. Of course they have multiplied and 
scattered somewhat in the course of ages, for 
they are a very ancient race. There is a 
popular song which says, — 

1 The Bodkins sneeze 
At the grim Chinese,’ 

which serves to show how well known is the 
long descent of the family.” 

The Italian, though still angry, could hardly 
suppress a smile, for he knew English well, 
320 


The Bodkin Letter 


and they had dropped into that language 
when they found themselves tete-a-tete. 

“ Your family may be as old as the deluge, 
and you may have a right to sneeze at Noah, 
if that is the custom of your aristocracy ; I do 
not dispute your pretensions, sir; I am not 
interested in genealogy. But what I do know 
is, that I have a perfect right to the name ; I 
have come by it honestly, and I shall not 
surrender it at the bidding of any man.” 

" Sir, do you mean to insinuate that I have 
not a lawful right to the name of Bodkin?” 
demanded the other. 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders and 
spread out his hands. 

“ I know nothing whatever about you.” 

“ 1 do not expect you to know about me 
or my family. They do not travel; I have 
knocked about the world a great deal, and I 
have never encountered a Bodkin except 
myself.” 

The Italian was again provoked to smile 
slightly at the Irish bull. Then he said, more 
quietly : 

“ I want my letter.” 

“ My letter, you mean. Look here, it is 
time to put an end to this nonsense. If 
3 21 


21 


Stories from Italy 

not, I shall have recourse to the English 
consul.” 

“ The English consul cannot make me give 
up my name,” said the Italian. 

“ Your name, forsooth ! This is a strange 
hallucination of yours. Who ever heard of an 
Italian Bodkin since the world began? ” 

“ Sir,” said the Italian, flushing to the roots 
of his hair, “ you must unsay those insulting 
words, or else — ” 

“ Or else ? What is the alternative ? ” 

“ You must fight. Here is my card. I 
shall send a friend to your hotel.” 

The Irishman seemed much surprised. He 
took the card and read on it the simple name, 
Amedeo Bodkin. Then he looked with a 
curious interest from the card to the young 
man for a minute or two. His anger seemed 
to have evaporated. He pulled out his pocket- 
book, took a card, and scribbled the name of 
his hotel and the hour he should be found 
there. 

“Here is my card, and you see my name; 
it is a respectable name, and I cannot afford 
to give it up, particularly as my father left me 
little else. If, therefore, you insist on fight- 
ing for it, I ’m your man. 

322 


The Bodkin Letter 


‘ I ne’er delayed 

When foemen bade me draw my blade.’ 

It is true I am rather out of practice, not 
having fought a duel for a hundred years — 
I mean, of course, our people. Before the 
Union there used to be a duel almost every 
day in Phoenix Park, but now it is unlawful.” 

“And do you Irish care about the law in 
such a matter when your honor is concerned ? ” 

“ Strange as it may seem, we have taken to 
observe the law in that particular. As for 
honor, why, it has got to take care of itself, — 
and it does somehow,” returned the Irishman, 
in a pleasant conversational tone. “ I was 
just about to remark that I never served, even 
in the militia, so I do not know how to handle 
a sword, but I am a capital shot .” And he 
eyed his adversary closely. 

“You have your choice of weapons,” re- 
turned the Italian, calmly. “ I have the honor 
to wish you good-morning, sir.” 

“ Good-morning, sir,” replied the other, 
and they separated. 

Later in the day a friend of the Italian 
Bodkin waited on the Irish Bodkin to arrange 
a meeting at the dawn, so as to evade the 
carabinieri , who have a way of turning up on 

323 


Stories from Italy 

the ground as if they had been sent for, and 
conveying the combatants before a magistrate. 
It is the duty of a second to try to arrange 
the difference before proceeding to extremes, 
so this one testified that his principal was 
really called Bodkin , that his family had been 
Italian for three generations. The young man 
remembered his grandfather, who had made 
money in Australia, and was in very good 
circumstances, but he had taken to painting as 
a profession. The youth’s father was a learned 
man and a professor in a public school. He 
lost his patrimony by a bad investment, and 
died poor. The son was a teacher in the 
elementary government schools, and was the 
chief support of his mother and sister. He 
gave lessons in the evening to the fores fieri, 
chiefly English people. He was a clever fellow, 
and burned the midnight oil in study. 

Alexander Bodkin drew out this story by 
questions, and showing by his manner a 
friendly interest in the family history of his 
namesake. 

“ All this is very interesting,” he said. 
“ And he has a mother and sister dependent 
on him ? ” 

“ The sister teaches also, and earns enough 

324 


The Bodkin Letter 


to dress herself ; but when a bad year comes 
and lessons are few, they both are short. The 
mother is a constant invalid, and they save all 
they can for her — to take her to the mineral 
baths in summer and make her comfortable. 
They love her very much.” 

“ I should like to have a talk with your 
friend,” said Alexander. 

“But you are going to fight?” 

“ It would be quite incorrect in that case, 
I know ; but I do not intend to fight. It is 
all nonsense, and I felt inclined to roar when 
he proposed it, it was so absurd ; but I humored 
his whim for the fun of the thing. Let us go 
forth and visit my namesake.” 

The friend took his hat with a pleased 
smile, content with his ability as a diploma- 
tist. They walked in silence, Alexander Bodkin 
ruminating on the family history. He called 
to mind that two younger brothers of his 
grandfather had gone to Australia when mere 
youths. They had ceased to write home 
after their parents dropped off, and were 
believed to be dead long before their grand- 
nephew Alexander was born. And now, by 
the merest chance, he had come upon a trace 
of one of his grand-uncles, had encountered 
325 


Stories from Italy 

his descendant, and was near fighting him for 
the right to bear his name. 

It was a bitterly cold day, and “ the north 
wind seemed to be blowing from all points,” 
as Alexander remarked to his guide in his 
inconsequent Irish way, regardless of sense 
and science. 

“ What would you?” said the Italian, 
apologetically. “ We must remember that we 
are in the heart of winter. This is Christmas 
Eve.” 

“ Oh, I am not complaining,” returned 
Bodkin, cheerfully. “ I am accustomed to a 
worse wind, — a wind that would take the 
hair of your head out by the roots, and oak 
trees in the same manner. But you are walk- 
ing in the middle of the street. To be sure it 
is just as clean as the sidewalk, but the car- 
riages make it slightly inconvenient.” 

“ I always walk in the middle of the street,” 
returned the Italian, “ since I have had two 
narrow escapes of my life by walking on the 
footway.” 

“ Brigands? ” suggested the Irishman. 

“We have no brigands in our cities,” re- 
turned the Italian. “ No, it is the fatal 
tendency people have to throw themselves 
326 


The Bodkin Letter 


down from third-story windows that makes 
life uncertain for the passer-by. I fear they 
would make me cold as well as themselves. 
Here we are at our friend’s door. His flat is 
on the third story : you will see his name 
beside the door-bell. A rivederla .” 

Alexander mounted the long flights of dark 
stone stairs, which were common to six families, 
and at last reached the third floor, and read 
on the plate with a strange sensation the 
“ unique name ” of Bodkin, which he had 
flattered himself was peculiar to his race. 
The door was opened by a young girl, very 
plainly dressed, but ladylike-looking. She 
was a pale brunette, with beautiful raven hair 
twisted in heavy coils at the back of her small 
head. She showed the visitor into a salottino , 
and said she would advise her brother of his 
presence. It was a small room with white 
muslin curtains and bare brick floor. In front 
of the sofa was a square of carpet, and round 
this in a circle were ranged several chairs, so 
that all the company might share the bit of 
carpet. 

Our traveller glanced his quick eye round 
the room and saw genteel poverty written on 
every object. What struck him most was the 
327 


Stories from Italy 

number of books and the handsome binding 
of some of them which he saw in a large 
bookcase and lying on the table. He opened 
one or two and found they were presents from 
English friends and pupils. 

In a few minutes the door opened and his 
adversary entered. He was like his sister, 
delicately pale, that fine clear palor which 
suggests a student’s life. He had brown eyes 
and a broad square forehead, with dark hair 
standing straight up, like King Humbert’s; 
he was of middle stature, slight and thin, well- 
dressed in dark unobtrusive colors. The 
stranger, as soon as he saw him, advanced 
smiling and said : 

“ I beg your pardon for my rudeness this 
morning,” and offered his hand, which the 
Italian took with great cordiality. 

“ I not only acknowledge your right to the 
name which I had hitherto believed the ex- 
clusive possession of my family, but I am 
come to claim you as a kinsman. I have 
good reason to believe that we are related.” 

“ My dear sir, I am pleased and flattered to 
hear it. But how? Pray be seated.” 

“ Tell me all you know about your family 
history,” said Alexander, seating himself on 
328 


The Bodkin Letter 

the sofa and stretching out his long legs to 
the centre of the carpet, while his host drew 
an easy- chair in front of him, and they took 
a long look at each other. The Italian then 
related more circumstantially what we have 
already heard about his Australian grandfather, 
Alexander listening attentively ; he then told 
his story, which dove-tailed into the imperfect 
sketch he had just heard. The departure of 
the two boys sixty years before, moved thereto 
by the growing poverty of the dwindling 
estate, the number of sisters to be fortuned 
off it, and the spirit of adventure so strong in 
English youths, had been a family tradition 
which his aunts had often repeated. Their 
names were Alexander and Oliver. 

“ Oliver was my grandfather,” said Amedeo. 
“ There is no longer any doubt about our 
common ancestry.” And he took another 
long look at his visitor. He was a handsome 
fellow with a blooming complexion, white and 
rosy, dark wavy hair, dark arched eye-brows, 
and those peculiar eyes which are called 
“ Irish gray,” with large pupils and a chang- 
ing light in them. It struck Amedeo that 
there was something familiar to him in his 
face. The Irishman bore the scrutiny with a 
3 2 9 


Stories from Italy 

pleasant smile, and then said in his soft mellow 
voice with a certain accent which betrayed 
his nationality, though not what could be 
called a brogue : 

“ Well, do you like me for a cousin? ” 

“Very much indeed,” replied the other, 
laughing, and holding out his hand, which 
Alexander grasped warmly. 

“Now I’ll tell you all about myself,” he 
said confidentially. “ I belong to that un- 
happy class called distressed Irish landlords. 
The land has gone down in value by degrees 
— wants capital to improve it — no money to 
be had — tenants miserably poor — won’t pay 
up — I won’t press the poor devils. I have 
to live as economically as I can, chiefly on the 
Continent, where one gets more for one’s 
money, and the sunshine gratis. The old 
place is delightful in summer; though the 
house is shabby it is still comfortable. I 
have two dear old aunts who live there always, 
because they have hardly any other provision, 
and they keep house for me. I am a poor 
devil, and I don’t mind telling you, my cousin, 
that I am anxious to get hold of that letter 
which may have a remittance from my solici- 
tor who is at present in London (the hand 
33o 


The Bodkin Letter 

seemed like his), because I am in low water 
at present.” 

“1 should propose to go at once for the 
letter,” replied Amedeo, “but I fear it is now 
too late ; being Christmas Eve the office will 
be closed. We can go together to-morrow 
morning.” 

It was now dark ; Amedeo lighted a lamp 
that stood on a cabinet, and placed it in the 
middle of the table. They fell into a discursive 
talk on literature, travels, and other subjects, 
but the personal note predominated, because 
they were interested in each other. Once 
when Alexander lamented his inability to 
redeem mortgaged land and do something for 
his people, Amedeo said with a smile : 

“It would be easy for you to restore the 
prosperity of your house by marrying a 
bride with a handsome dot. They abound in 
England.” 

Alexander grew very red at this suggestion 
and laughed in an embarrassed manner, which 
made his cousin conclude that he had hit the 
nail on the head, and that he had an heiress 
in his eye ; but what the Italian could not 
understand was why he should feel ashamed of 
such a very natural proceeding. Everybody 
33i 


Stories from Italy 

he knew wanted to marry a dot ; it was the 
dream of all the poor elegant young men of 
his acquaintance to fascinate an American 
heiress, and they often reproached him for 
not making more of his opportunities when 
giving lessons to English and American ladies 
of fortune. But though he thought it a blame- 
less thing for a poor man to look for money, 
his own poverty could not make Amedeo a 
fortune-hunter. 

The Bodkin house was a small flat, and the 
kitchen was not so far off that the smell of 
hot soup could not penetrate to the little 
salotto. It was a cold room with a north 
aspect ; there was no fire in the stove. The 
young man began to feel and look chilly. 
The smell of good hot minestrci became more 
pungent ; the dinner-hour had arrived. Alex- 
ander looked at his watch and said he must 
go. After a brief mental struggle Amedeo 
came to a momentous decision. 

“ Signor Alessandro, you have talked about 
your want of money; I have said nothing 
about my poverty, but it is self-evident ; you 
see our mode of living. I am not ashamed of 
it, for I owe no man anything,” he said, smil- 
ing, and lifting his pale thin face to meet his 
332 


The Bodkin Letter 

tall friend’s eyes with something of a proud 
defiance in it. 

“I wish I could say the same, my dear 
fellow ; but it is hard to keep out of debt in 
these bad times.” 

They both began to laugh. 

“The meaning of this preface is that I 
should like to ask you to dine, instead of let- 
ting you go away on this cold night to your 
hotel; but our fare is poor and mean com- 
pared with what you are accustomed to ; still, 
if you would be so kind and friendly as to 
excuse all deficiencies — ” 

“ My dear fellow, I shall be only too happy 
to make the acquaintance of your family ; and 
I trust you will not treat me as a stranger. 
The ladies will excuse my dress,” looking at 
his rough gray suit. 

Amedeo laughed. 

“Don’t imagine we dress for dinner,” he 
said. “ Excuse me for a moment ; I must 
tell my mother.” 

Alexander, left alone, looked at himself in 
the glass over the mantelpiece, and combed 
back his wavy brown hair and moustache with 
a little pocket-comb. He divined something 
of his friend’s pecuniary circumstances, for he 
333 


Stories from Italy 


was observant and sympathetic ; but he was 
too much of a stranger to him and to the ways 
of the poor Italians to know the full depth of 
the poverty of government employes. Forty 
pounds a year is considered a high salary for 
a teacher in the national board schools, and 
Amedeo, being still young, had not attained to 
that yet; so that the maintenance of the 
household depended much on the foreign 
pupils in winter. He and his sister, like all 
their class, managed to dress respectably, but 
to do so comfort in other ways had to be 
sacrificed to an extent which English travellers 
could hardly understand. People in their 
position never entertain ; every man eats at 
home and meets his friends at the caf£ or 
club. Alexander, accustomed to the rough 
plenty of an Irish country-house, where an 
unceremonious hospitality was the rule, had 
no notion what it cost this proud reserved 
Italian to break down the barriers which con- 
cealed the domestic misery, and admit a 
stranger to spy out the poverty of the land. 
But Amedeo was, after all, of Irish blood ; the 
claim of kinship was strong, and Alexander 
had a personal fascination for him which had 
attracted him even when they were quarrelling 
334 


The Bodkin Letter 


over the letter. It was, however, difficult for 
him to reconcile his mother and sister to such 
an unlooked-for event as a visitor, and make 
them prepare for him in a few minutes. But 
Silvia would do anything to please her brother, 
and she was the housekeeper. She unlocked 
the wardrobe in the hall and got out her finest 
table linen (of that the poorest Tuscan has a 
good store), and went into the kitchen to 
help and direct the old servant in the culinary 
business. There was plenty of soup and 
macaroni, but the meat that made the soup 
was a very small lump almost boiled away. 

“The meat is not enough, Maria,” said Sil- 
via, contemplating it mournfully. “ You must 
cut up the fowl at once and fry it on another 
fire.” 

“ Santa Madonna /” cried the old dame 
aghast. “ The chicken ’s for the festa to-mor- 
row ! Signorina mia , do you know what fowl 
costs at this season? You know it is only for 
a grand festa we can have it (only a bit for the 
Signora because she is ill), and to-morrow is 
Christmas Day ! ” 

“ Never mind, Maria. The case is urgent. 
It is a friend of my brother, and he is very 
hungry.” 


335 


Stories from Italy 

In a wonderfully short time the Signorina 
came to the salotto to announce dinner ; hav- 
ing brushed her hair and changed her frock 
she looked even brighter and fresher than on 
her first appearance. Her black dress was re- 
lieved by a soft, creamy silk scarf round her 
neck tied in a bow in front. She had an ivory 
complexion, glossy, black hair simply coiled 
at the back of her small, graceful head, with 
tiny, curling rings round her forehead and the 
nape of her neck, and black, pencilled eye- 
brows; but when she raised her lashes the 
beholder was surprised to find, instead of the 
black eyes he expected, a pair of soft, serious, 
gray ones. 

The little dining-room was more comfort- 
able than the salottino ; there was a fire in the 
stove, and in an easy- chair near it sat a deli- 
cate old lady wrapped in a shawl, embracing 
a little brass scaldino full of red ashes with 
both her colorless hands. She was tall and 
gaunt, her dark eyes looked out of caverns, 
and her abundant, snow-white hair was covered 
with a little black lace kerchief. There was a 
certain air of puritanical simxfiicity about her 
which explained itself to Alexander when he 
learned that she was a true Waldensian from 
336 


The Bodkin Letter 


the Valle Pellice, whose family had been he- 
roes and heroines in the bad old persecuting 
times. She was very clever and spoke both 
French and English well. 

“ Her children seem devoted to her, so she 
must have something fine in her character," 
he concluded. 

Alexander was presented as a relative, and 
was received cordially by the ladies. As they 
spoke English better than he spoke Italian the 
conversation was carried on in his own lan- 
guage, and as he was always at his ease, he 
made himself very amusing with his stories of 
his travels, anecdotes of famous persons, and 
his mimicry of eccentric acquaintances, which 
he rendered with a dramatic effect that made 
his entertainers laugh heartily. 

The dinner consisted of large plates of soup 
and great slices of dark bread, a small quan- 
tity of boiled beef, and after that the famous 
fowl fried with cauliflower; then came salad 
and cheese, and it wound up with a cup of 
black coffee. They had also good red wine, 
but that had been a special flask procured for 
Christmas. The old woman in the kitchen shook 
her head ruefully over the empty dishes, and 

“ Bitterly thought on the morrow,” 

22 337 


Stories from Italy 

while the ringing laughter of the young peo- 
ple in the parlor resounded through the little 
house and made her reflect on the thought- 
lessness and recklessness of youth. 

Alexander, while entertaining his hosts, was 
not less entertained himself. He was amused 
and interested in watching an Italian interior 
of the middle class, and he found his cousins 
emphatically what the Italians call simpatici. 
He watched the Signorina take down from 
the cupboard a dainty little service of antique 
china, arrange the cups on the table, and pour 
out the coffee, which she had made herself 
with a spirit lamp, and he wished to help her, 
but 

“from utter courtesy forbore.” 


Amedeo offered his visitor a cigar while they 
were still at table. Alexander glanced at the 
Signora and asked if the smoke annoyed her. 
She assured him that she was accustomed to it 
and liked it, so they puffed away contentedly, 
while the Signorina removed her coffee-cups, 
brought them back washed, and proceeded to 
hang them up in the cupboard. Alexander ad- 
mired her quiet, graceful movements and the 
simplicity of her manners. 

338 


The Bodkin Letter 

“She is a nice, sweet girl,” he thought, 
“ and would be pretty if she had a little more 
flesh on her bones. They all look thin, and 
pale, and under- fed.” 

Silvia sat down by the lamp with her muslin 
embroidery, and then the visitor could watch 
her more persistently without causing her any 
embarrassment. He admired her pretty head 
bent over her work, her fine, black tresses, the 
delicate, wax-like ear and throat, the small, 
slender hands. 

“Signorina,” he said suddenly, as he was 
about to depart, “ do you know that you re- 
mind me of one of my aunts? I cannot tell 
in what particular, but in some indefinable way 
you suggest her. You are a true Bodkin in 
spite of being grafted on a new stock.” 

The girl blushed, and her defect being want 
of color she looked charming at that moment, 
with a sweet, shy look in her dark-gray 
eyes, which sometimes took a deep violet 
shade. 

“ What you say must be true,” said Amedeo. 
“ I never noticed it till now, but Silvia’s eyes 
are just like yours. Is it not so, mother? ” 

The mother looked from one to the other 
and recognized the likeness. Alexander bowed 
339 


Stories from Italy 

and said, “ You flatter me, my friends ; but I 
am pleased that you find a resemblance be- 
tween us. Our grandfathers were brothers; 
blood is thicker than water. Good-night, 
cousin Silvia ! ” and he gave her cold little 
hand a very warm pressure. 

“ Blood is thicker than water,” he repeated 
to himself as he strode along the silent street. 
“ That is a grand old lady, but I do not feel 
drawn towards her as toward the young peo- 
ple. They are awfully poor, yet so refined and 
cultivated ; they interest me.” He wondered 
they did not ask him for Christmas Day, and 
concluded that it was because they could not 
procure a handsome joint of roast-beef and a 
plum-pudding, but he did not suspect that, 
having demolished the fowl and flask of Chianti, 
there was nothing for to-morrow but bread and 
minestra. Still his thoughts kept playing round 
his new-found relatives, and he longed to have 
a home near to invite them and to give them 
an Irish welcome, with a pretty present for 
each. 

“ Can’t you give them some presents here ? 
And why not invite the whole family to your 
hotel and give them a good dinner to-mor- 
row?” suggested something inside of Alex- 
340 


The Bodkin Letter 


ander which was always tempting him to 
extravagance. 

“ Ah, to be sure, old fellow, there you are at 
it again ! ” replied his other self. “ I should 
be delighted — but the sinews of war are want- 
ing. I must pay my hotel bill first. I ought 
to take a lesson from that poor fellow who said 
he owed no man anything. It is vastly to his 
honor, I am sure, and it made me ashamed of 
myself. I must not be generous till I have 
something of my own.” 

In this humble frame of mind, our traveller 
mounted the stairs to his room and found on 
the table a letter forwarded from Milan. It 
contained a much-desired cheque from an edi- 
tor to whom he had acted as “ occasional cor- 
respondent” in his travels. “Oh, joy ! I shall 
have the pleasure of giving the dinner to my 
poor relations, after all ! ” 

Christmas morning dawned bright and beau- 
tiful in the fair City of Flowers. The air was 
crisp, frosty, and bracing ; the sky was brilliantly 
blue, the Arno a clear green, the sun sparkling 
on the grand cathedral and its matchless cam- 
panile ; the bells were ringing and all the foun- 
tains playing. The streets were full of citizens 
with their families in their best attire, going to 
34i 


Stories from Italy 


or coming from church. At nine o’clock our 
two friends were on their way to the post-office 
armed with such credentials as would prove 
their claims to the letter. On the way Alex- 
ander told Amedeo of his little plan of taking 
the ladies for a drive in the park early in the 
afternoon, and then having them all to dinner 
in his hotel ; and it was settled that they should 
meet them coming out of church to get their 
consent. 

Arrived at the post-office, they presented 
their credentials and intimated that they were 
agreed that one of them should open the letter 
on the spot. The clerk produced it ; Amedeo 
put his hands in his pockets and nodded to- 
wards his friend. Alexander took it, and mov- 
ing to one side out of the crowd opened it. 
He glanced down the first page, turned over 
and read the second and third without utter- 
ing a syllable. Then he lifted his eyes and 
fixed Amedeo with a curious, dumfounded 
look. 

“What is the matter? Have you good or 
bad news?” asked the other. 

“ Come out in the piazza and let us have a 
talk,” returned Alexander. “I don’t know 
whether I am on my head or my heels. Do 
342 


The Bodkin Letter 

you remember your grandfather speaking of a 
brother who went to Australia with him? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, that brother of your grandfather and 
my grandfather has died in Australia at an ad- 
vanced age, childless, leaving an immense for- 
tune — the exact amount is not ascertained — 
to be divided between his nephews’ children. 
He has also left legacies to my aunts. We are 
all the nephew’s children alive — we are his 
heirs.” 

“ Alessandro ! ” 

“ My dear fellow, I doubted my senses at 
first. Here is the letter ; read it, it concerns 
you as much as me ; you have an equal inter- 
est in it.” 

Amedeo had grown red and pale by turns, 
and now his lip quivered and he bit it as he 
took the letter with trembling hand and pre- 
tended to study the contents. Presently he 
thrust it back to Alexander and heaved a great 
sigh. 

“ There, take it ! it is enough for me to 
know that a competency is assured to my poor 
mother and Silvia, a certainty of comfort for 
the rest of their lives. You do not know — 
you never could understand — what they have 
343 


Stories from Italy 

gone through — how much needed this is. 
Oh, thank God ! ” 

He almost broke down. They were stand- 
ing under the colonnade of the Uffizi Gallery 
just opposite the post-office ; Alexander put 
his hand to Amedeo’s shoulder and pushed 
him down on a stone bench. Then he took 
his hand and congratulated him warmly, and 
added : “lam as glad on your account as my 
own — I am, on my honor.” 

Amedeo pressed his hand, but did not speak. 
Alexander then sat silent and still for a few 
minutes ruminating. By the overpowering ef- 
fect of the joyful news on his friend he could 
measure the depth of the misery he had 
known, the worst part of which was probably 
the dread which haunts overworked men of 
breaking down and leaving their womankind 
desolate, or being a helpless burden on some- 
body’s charity. This weight was taken off his 
heart suddenly, and no wonder he felt stunned. 

“Amedeo,” he said aloud, “you are a cap- 
ital fellow and I like you more and more. You 
have taught me a lesson on economy, too. I 
have hitherto been too careless and thought- 
less ; because I had not enough of money I 
did not put my one talent to good account. 

344 


The Bodkin Letter 


I am going to turn over a new leaf, and apply 
this fortune, which I have done nothing to earn, 
to the best purpose, I hope, for the good of 
others. I feel a sense of responsibility about 
property which I never felt before. We owe 
something to posterity, though it is an incon- 
trovertible fact, that statement of Sir Paul 
Roche, that posterity has never earned our 
gratitude by doing anything for us.” 

Amedeo stared, somewhat bewildered. 

“ He was a countryman of mine who, when 
the claims of posterity were urged, asked what 
has posterity ever done for us ? and every one 
was silenced by the remark.” 

Amedeo laughed, but in an agitated, absent 
sort of way, and then said : 

“ This fortune will have a sobering effect on 
your wild spirits, I think. It is the right way 
to receive such a heaven-sent gift. And what 
have I done to deserve it, either?” 

“ Ah, my friend, it is no use trying to con- 
ceal it from me, for you cannot ! Your whole 
life is a continual sacrifice, and your present 
happiness is in no wise selfish — it is purely 
altruistic,” said Alexander. 

“ If you had not been here that letter would 
not have come to Florence ; they would not 
345 


Stories from Italy 

have known aught of me, and then — ” said 
Amedeo, pausing. 

“ And if I had accepted your challenge to 
meet you this morning, the letter would have 
gone back to London probably, as I might be 
lying stiff and cold, and then — Ah, Amedeo ! 
you have great reason to be thankful that you 
have not a dead man seated beside you on 
this bench.” 

“ Misericordia !” 

“Tell me now, on this Christmas morning,” 
pursued Alexander in his serio-comic manner, 
“with all those sweet bells ringing, and the 
churches of all the different nations here sing- 
ing ‘ Peace on earth and good-will towards 
men,’ do you think it was a worthy act for a 
galantuomo to stain the earth with his brother’s 
blood?” 

“ It would be villanous ; but I did not in- 
tend to kill you.” 

“Only to ‘wing’ me? That would have 
been more cruel still.” 

“ Che / che ! I would not have hit you.” 

“ Then this mode of defending your honor 
is a solemn farce, and ought to be laughed out 
of court. Yet I have heard of some fatal cases. 
You are a man of character, Amedeo, and you 
346 


The Bodkin Letter 

ought to set your face against this absurd 
practice. Promise me that you will.” 

“ I would promise you anything, my dear 
Alexander, after the happy news you have 
brought me this day. And you don’t mind 
sharing the fortune which would have been all 
yours only for these foreign cousins?” he said 
with a smile, looking the other in the face. 
But the frank, open, joyous expression of the 
handsome Irishman removed any lingering 
doubt he might have had. 

“ I tell you I am the happiest fellow alive, 
and would be even if the fortune were less 
than I am led to expect,” he replied. “ It re- 
moves the horrid necessity of marrying the 
heiress. Yes, you guessed truly, Amedeo ; I 
was urged, pressed to make a convenient match, 
and there was one at hand which would settle 
all difficulties. But oh ! the blessed day ! I 
had not asked her. I put it off from time to 
time ; now I am free, and I am almost beside 
myself with joy.” 

The two friends walked on, hardly feeling 
the ground under their feet, so airy was their 
tread, till they reached the Waldensian church, 
where they met Signora Bodkin and her daugh- 
ter coming out. Alexander made haste to 
347 


Stories from Italy 

invite them for a drive in the Cascine and 
afterwards to dine at his hotel, which they 
agreed to do, and then Amedeo, trembling 
with eagerness to impart his great news, called 
a cab and drove home with them. 

Alexander, standing at the foot of the stairs 
when he alighted from the carriage at three 
o’clock, saw Amedeo giving his arm to his 
mother on the top of the last flight, and Silvia 
running before them with a shawl and a cushion. 
The effect of happiness upon that sweet crea- 
ture seemed marvellous to him. She ap- 
peared several years younger, and ever so 
much prettier than she had done last night. 
Her face was radiant, and her little feet hardly 
touched the steps as she flew down to the door. 

“ Signor Alessandro, I congratulate you, and 
I thank you ! ” she said, putting her hand in 
his, as he relieved her of her burden of shawls. 

“ Why thank me, cousin? The merit is not 
mine.” 

“ Oh, you have brought good fortune with 
you ! ” she cried, “ and you have been so kind 
about it all, so generous ! ” 

“ You regard me as a sort of fairy godfather, 
I suppose ? All right ; I must try to live up to 
that character,” said Alexander, hastening to 

348 


The Bodkin Letter 


meet the Signora and convey her to the car- 
riage. Even her worn old face had lost some 
of its wrinkles and wore a happy smile ; she 
walked more uprightly and seemed less af- 
flicted with cold than before. It did him 
good to see all these signs of contentment in 
this amiable family ; it put him in his pleasant- 
est mood, and he entertained his guests during 
the drive with his brightest stories, and they, 
being in a holiday mood, were easily made to 
laugh. It was not so much the matter, as the 
comic manner of relating things that amused 
them and charmed them. His droll smile was 
irresistible ; the tones of his rich, soft voice roll- 
ing his “ r’s ” with Celtic energy, had a latent 
humor which predisposed the listeners to 
mirth. 

Arrived at the Cascine the young people 
got out of the carriage, and wrapping their 
mother up in a heap of shawls, ordered the 
coachman to drive slowly along the sunny ave- 
nue by the Arno while they walked ahead un- 
der the trees. The beauty of the park and 
the surrounding hills, combined with the clear, 
crisp, frosty air, made the walk delightful, and 
the hours passed all too rapidly ; but it was 
marvellous how intimate the three young peo- 
349 


Stories from Italy 

pie had become in that space of time. They 
seemed to have known each other for years. 
Silvia’s pale cheeks had got a rose tint, and her 
gray eyes looked brighter and darker than 
usual, so that she resembled more than ever 
her cousin Alexander. She talked more than 
usual, too, the conversation being carried on 
in English to please Alexander, who liked to 
hear her pretty, childlike foreign accent. And 
while she was seeking the proper phraseology 
to express her thought he always supplied the 
exact words she wanted, so complete was his 
sympathy and understanding of her mind and 
character. Whence came this sympathy he 
accounted for by the tie of blood, family like- 
nesses being capricious and often cropping up 
in distant relatives ; and to the underlying sim- 
ilarity of tastes was added the charm of nov- 
elty, each belonging to a different nation. 
Amedeo, as was inevitable under the circum- 
stances, often found himself left out of the 
conversation. But he was one of those rare, 
unselfish men who are always more occupied 
with the happiness and pleasure of others than 
their own, and he was content to listen, amused 
and pleased to see his sister in such good 
spirits. 


35o 


The Bodkin Letter 


A delicious little dinner was awaiting the 
friends at the hotel, and they had a merry 
Christmas indeed ; not one discordant note 
marred the joy of that happy day. 

“ Here ’s to our merry meeting this day 
twelve months,” said the host, filling the ladies’ 
glasses. “ May it be under the old family- roof 
tree of our common ancestry — I don’t mean 
monkeys, you know, by common ancestors — 
I mean Bodkins, of course, who were very an- 
cient, but don’t date quite so far back. What 
pleasure it will give me to greet you there I 
can hardly express, but you will understand 
and believe me, I am sure.” 

And with this they broke up, and shook 
hands. 

“ I wish you a happy new year, cousin Sil- 
via, and many of them,” said Alexander, as 
they stood at the foot of the stairs, ready for 
departure, after he had paid his compliments 
to the mother. 

“ I wish you the same with all my heart,” 
she replied, with her pretty Italian effusive- 
ness, which had in it, however, a note of deep 
sincerity. “You deserve it.” 

“ Ah, to be sure, the fairy godfather ought 
to have his share of the sweets he is dispens- 
35i 


Stories from Italy 

ing with such a liberal hand. At least he ought 
to live in the affectionate remembrance of his 
godchildren — non e vero ? ” 

“Surely!” 

“ That is reward enough for the pleasure of 
being the bearer of good tidings,” said Alex- 
ander, suddenly laying by his gay smile and 
looking serious. 

“ Will you remember me when I am gone, 
apart from the good news ? ” 

“ Will you remember us when you return to 
your gay, fashionable world?” asked Silvia. 

“ Aye ; that I will forever.” 

He darted a look down upon her upturned 
face which pierced her and at the same mo- 
ment revealed his own soul to her. Her head 
grew giddy with the sudden revelation; she 
could not speak or move. He took her hand 
and wished her the compliments of the season 
in the ordinary tones of society, while he led 
her to the carriage where her mother was al- 
ready placed. But in the thrilling pressure of 
his hand she felt that a great wave of emotion 
was passing over his soul, and it communicated 
itself to hers. She sank back in the corner 
of the carriage and heard nothing more that 
passed. The one thought which absorbed her 
35 2 


The Bodkin Letter 


was, he was going away ! If the imperious 
duties of his position obliged him to depart 
like the fairy prince he described himself, why 
did he not spare her that look which revealed 
his momentous secret? 

Arrived at the door of their modest dwell- 
ing, Amedeo was handing his mother out of 
the carriage and remarking what a happy day 
it had been — not all due to the fortune — 
for much they owed to their charming cousin. 

“ How shall we live without him when he is 
gone ? ” he said. 

Just then some one slapped him on the shoul- 
der and exclaimed : “ Here I am, old fellow. 
You cannot live without me, and I cannot live 
without you — at least one of you.” It was 
the fairy prince who had just leaped off the 
box. He leaned into the carriage where Sil- 
via still sat almost dazed, and taking her hand 
he pressed it to his bosom and whispered, 
“ To part with you would be parting with my 
own soul, or tearing it asunder. 

1 A two-fold existence, 

I am where thou art.’ ” 

He then turned to the old lady and said, 
“ Signora, you told me this evening that you 
2 3 353 


Stories from Italy 

would never refuse me any favor I could ask. 
I am now a suppliant for the greatest it is in 
your power to bestow. I ask the hand of your 
daughter. I see I have taken you by surprise, 
but when I had decided, I could not rest to- 
night till I had my answer. It is better to 
know our fate at once. Speak a word for me, 
Amedeo.” 

“I think Silvia should speak for herself,” 
said the brother. 

“She has spoken — with her eyes,” re- 
turned the lover. “ There is nothing for you 
and your mother to do but to give us your 
blessing. It is all right, dear Signora, is it 
not ? You will rest better to-night if you add 
this crowning happiness to our happy day and 
sayy^f.” 

The old lady, thus importuned on her door- 
step on a cold night, did not withhold her 
consent long, and after a general shaking of 
hands the eccentric suitor leaped into the car- 
riage and drove off, saying as he waved his 
adieux : 

“ Oh, that blessed Bodkin letter ! ” 


354 









' 































I 




\ 

. * 

. 

■ 




- 

. 

. 

■ 




























• ■ 


. 

► 

* 

















» 



















































/ 








































